


Crime Doesn't Pay

by Melivian



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Ben Hargreeves Deserves Better, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Klaus Hargreeves (sort of), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Dubious Morality, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Klaus Hargreeves Needs Help, Multi, Not for the content but the characterization, Pansexual Klaus Hargreeves, Pre-Canon, Researching this fic has put me on a government watchlist, Robbery, Self-Deception, Things spiraling wildly out of control, all the Klaus warnings, written pre-season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melivian/pseuds/Melivian
Summary: Klaus never liked being a superhero growing up.  After all, villains always get better costumes and speeches.  But when a desperate Klaus stumbles upon a quick way of making money to pay off his drug debts, he heads down a road that turns him into the kind of person he used to fight.Otherwise known as the Klaus-goes-on-a-crime-spree AU that absolutely no one asked for but me.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 123
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a crackpot idea I had while writing another story. Somehow, what was supposed to be a throwaway one-shot turned into a novella. The fic is about 80-90% done and is shaping up to be in the 30,000-word range (although chapter divisions are in flux), but I got antsy after sitting on this chapter for over a month. Content warnings for chapters will be in the endnotes—this is NOT a wholesome fic.
> 
> Just so you know what you're getting into (aka PLEASE DON'T KILL ME FOR THIS): although Klaus is still Klaus here, be warned that he does bad things. Think of this as an AU about how he _might_ have reacted to specific pressures. I'm often tempted to ignore some of Klaus's flaws because the show does a great job of making you sympathize with him. This fic, however, takes it far in the opposite direction, because that version of Klaus works better as the protagonist of the story I wanted to write. That might not be the Klaus content you're looking for, but if this is up your alley, buckle up and enjoy the ride!

All in all, Klaus rated the superhero lifestyle a solid D+, but now and then it had its perks.

“Stop right there, evildoer!” he shouted in his best heroic voice, quickly extinguishing his cigarette.

The bank robber who had just escaped with a bag of cash out the back door that Klaus was supposed to be guarding laughed. “I'm so scared, ghost boy,” he said, sprinting toward a getaway car that had pulled up.

Great, now even the crooks thought Klaus was a joke. He really needed better PR.

Klaus ran after the fleeing man, but the distance between them only grew. His heart sank with dread. Dad loved using Klaus's screw-ups on missions as excuses to assign more training—all for his own good, of course, just to help him keep up with the others, because Klaus definitely wasn't being locked up with corpses to scream until he was catatonic as a _punishment_!

In a moment of inspiration, he took off a shoe and tossed it at the criminal. It bounced against his head, making him stumble. Klaus hopped over on one bare foot, then leapt onto the man's back. He hung from his shoulders for dear life, struggling to take him down.

“There's no—oof—escaping from the long arm of the law,” said Klaus, punching the criminal's head. “Justice will prevail!”

“You're such a nuisance,” said the robber, and then flung him off. Klaus hit the ground with a painful thud. He was in good shape, notwithstanding a few vices, but his opponent looked to be six-foot-five and two hundred and forty pounds of pure muscle. Compulsory martial arts training and weightlifting regimens weren't enough to overcome the size difference.

Then the door to the getaway car opened. Out popped the driver, holding a gun.

 _Well, shit_ , Klaus thought, right before a knife wedged itself into the gunman's shoulder.

“You idiot,” said Diego, as the gunman shrieked and dropped his weapon.

“I was doing fine,” said Klaus.

Meanwhile, Luther was running up to the other robber. Before he could swing a punch, the robber cast aside his loot and sank to his knees, hands in the air. Klaus found it incredibly irritating.

Luther pulled out two pairs of handcuffs from his utility pouch. “Diego, catch!” The bleeding man moaned as Diego yanked his arms behind his back, roughly enough that it pulled on his injured shoulder and made him cry out. Diego snapped the cuffs shut around his wrists.

Then Luther walked up to the surrendered man with his own pair of handcuffs.

“Wait a minute!” Klaus pleaded. “Can't I do the honours?”

Luther glared at him. “This isn't about honours, Number Four. This is about stopping crime.”

“I don't think it's fair, that's all,” said Klaus. “I'd like to catch a perp now and then. Everyone else gets to do it.”

“Then actually catch one,” said Luther.

“Just let him do it, Luther,” said Diego. “I don't want to hear him whining later.”

“Fine,” said Luther, with a sigh. “Here you go.” He handed Klaus the other pair of handcuffs. “Have your fun, but make it quick.”

Klaus almost leapt for joy. “Yay! You're both my favourite brothers for the next ten minutes.” Then he turned to their captive and cleared his throat. Here was Klaus's chance to make the most of his moment in the sun. “Your reign of terror stops here, you fiend!” he shouted. Beside him, Diego was cringing, but Klaus ignored him. “For too long have your dastardly deeds gone unpunished. Now repent for your sins. Repent!”

“How have you not murdered this idiot yet?” said the robber to his brothers.

“Shut up,” said Diego and Luther in unison.

“It's time for your moment of reckoning,” Klaus continued, swinging the handcuffs in the air dramatically. “Time for Judgment Day! Time for...”

“Hurry up already,” said Luther.

“Aw, you're such a killjoy,” said Klaus, pouting.

The robber stared at the ground with resignation, as though wondering what chain of events could have led him to such a low point. It almost made Klaus feel bad for him. But really, if the man didn't want to listen to Klaus's victory speech, then he shouldn't have robbed a bank in the first place.

And as Klaus leaned in and snapped the handcuffs shut, he felt a strange rush of power. Like he was a hunter and the robber was his prey. It was a foreign experience, and he wasn't sure he liked it. It made him feel too much like Dad. If the others did this all the time, no wonder their heads were so swollen.

Still, even if he was only scavenging for secondhand glory, now and then it was nice to feel like he was good for something.

“When will you learn?” said Klaus, with intense self-satisfaction. “Crime doesn't pay.”

In the limousine ride home, Klaus was positively giddy. “I got to arrest a robber today,” he said. “Aren't you jealous?”

“We get it, Klaus,” said Ben. He looked out the window with a thousand-yard stare, trying to scrub the blood off his face with a wet tissue.

“I don't think you do, Ben,” said Klaus. Although he sensed the collective annoyance level building in the car, he couldn't stop himself now that he was on a roll. “There I was, forced by a mean bully to be the lookout.” Luther rolled his eyes at that, but Klaus kept going. “Then, out of nowhere, two armed robbers attacked! But did I give up? Did I lose heart? No, I fought them off and saved the day!” A wide grin spread across his face as he reminisced. “Oh, man, you should have seen the look on that guy's face when I took him down with my shoe. I'm telling you, he was about to wet himself.”

“On second thought, the whining would've been better,” said Diego, although he was smiling.

Allison turned to Luther. “Just wondering, what percentage of that was true?”

“About ten percent,” said Luther. “Maybe twenty.”

“Yep, about what I expected,” said Allison with a giggle.

“What gave it away?” asked Luther. “The part where Klaus took them both out?”

“It should have been the part where Klaus opened his mouth,” said Diego.

His siblings all laughed, and Klaus laughed with them as he dug his fingernails into his palms. It didn't matter. Really, it was hilarious. He was fine with being the butt of the joke, perfectly okay, and when he got home, tucked away under his mattress was a little bag of magic that would make everything even more okay.

Maybe Klaus would take better to fighting crime if he were ever allowed to have fun with it.

***

“Don't do this,” said Ben.

Klaus stopped walking to bend over and swallow the bile rising in his throat. Fuck, he would kill for a hit. He'd had nothing all day but half a bottle of cough syrup and some swiped Jack Daniel's that wasn't going to his head quickly enough. Even though he wore a winter coat in April and his rumpled shirt was drenched in sweat, he couldn't stop shivering.

“Klaus, are you listening?”

“No,” said Klaus, then winced. The broken fingers on his left hand were throbbing.

“I can't believe I'm saying this...but you'd actually be better off buying drugs with that money. This is a terrible idea.”

“Just get off my case.” Nagging was the last thing he needed. This was already stretching his willpower to the brink. It would be so easy to turn around right now and skip his appointment. If he waited a minute longer, the money would go straight up his veins.

“Klaus, this isn't the way,” said Ben. “I know you're scared, but you're not thinking clearly. You can work something out with Stavros's people.”

“Work what out?” He started laughing hysterically, the kind of laugh that sounded even to himself to be teetering off the edge of sanity. “What's your idea? I give them a kidney?”

“This won't protect you,” said Ben. “It will only escalate things.”

“I went through the same combat shit you did, Ben. Can everyone stop assuming I can't defend myself for once?”

“In this condition, you couldn't defend yourself against a fruit fly.”

Klaus extended the middle finger on his right hand and kept walking.

It had taken an impressive combination of bullshitting, charm, and namedropping to convince a big-shot supplier like Stavros Kallivrousis to front him any coke and heroin to deal in the first place, if Klaus did say so himself. He'd dressed to the nines in shoplifted designer clothing, pretended to be embarrassed at getting recognized, hinted at having a hefty trust fund from Sir Reginald Hargreeves and rich celebrity pals of Allison's who were looking for a reliable dope connection. The plan would have been foolproof if Klaus had actually managed to sell any of it. But then the drugs had been _right in front of him_. Just a little off the top that no one would miss, he'd told himself, and then predictable (not to mention painful) results had ensued.

At least Klaus had plenty of friends in low places. He just hoped that Gordon, or at least the person who called himself Gordon, could be trusted.

In the alley beside a strip club, a man was waiting.

“All clear?” asked Gordon. He shot a nervous glance over Klaus's shoulder.

“Yeah,” said Klaus. “I wasn't followed. By anyone who matters, anyway,” he added, with a pointed look at Ben.

Gordon reacted to the non sequitur with an impressive poker face. “Who gave you that black eye?”

Klaus winced. “Someone who won't be happy to see your gift.”

“You don't look so hot,” said Gordon. “Your fingers are bent funny. You should get that checked out, man.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, Mommy,” said Klaus, immediately hiding his left hand behind his back. Doctors and hospitals made him recoil.

Gordon pulled out a box. Inside were the disassembled parts of a 9mm semi-automatic. The receiver, the spring, the barrel, the cylinder—all were laid out on a bed of cotton.

Sir Reginald had taught them the basics of weapon maintenance and taken them to shooting ranges, so Klaus had fired a gun a few times. But never in combat, never at another person. Maybe Klaus might have been more effective on missions if he were armed, but their father was against it. Probably because of the optics. When children are killing people with guns instead of with magic, it destroys the illusion that they're heroes.

His healthy right hand shook as he pulled out the money. Two hundred dollars, mostly in fives and tens. It physically hurt Klaus to give it over. Saving it had cost so much of himself.

Gordon took the bills, counted them. “You're missing half.”

Klaus felt his throat close up. “N-no,” he choked out. He began to panic. “You said two hundred. That's what you said.”

“I said two hundred is retail.” He slipped the money into his pocket. “No background check or paper trail means fees. It's four hundred. Four-fifty if you want it loaded.”

“He's extorting you, Klaus,” said Ben. “He can tell you're desperate. Just walk away.”

“No one wants your input,” whispered Klaus.

“Are you trying to make this more difficult than it has to be?” asked Gordon.

“No, not you,” Klaus said quickly. “Don't mind me, I just hear voices. Look, uh, Gordon, couldn't we negotiate something? If you let me pay half now, I swear I'll spot you later.”

Gordon laughed. “Sorry, man, but I don't do credit.” Like lightning, he yanked the box away. Then he turned his back and started walking toward the street. “Come back when you're not wasting my time.”

It took a moment for Klaus to realize what was happening. “Hey!” Klaus yelled after him. “You still have my money!”

“Tell you what,” said Gordon. He tossed something metal over his shoulders. It hit the ground with a clang. “Here's the receiver. If you want all the other parts, come back to me with two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“What good is a receiver by itself?” asked Klaus.

“Maybe you can use it as a paperweight,” he said, and turned around the corner.

“Shit!” screamed Klaus, when he was alone. He slammed his fists against the wall. Instantly he regretted it. His broken fingers cried out in pain. “Ow, motherfucker!”

“I told you,” said Ben.

“Thank you for being so supportive,” snapped Klaus. He picked up the gun frame. There was a handle, a trigger, a pointy end. It was vaguely gun-shaped, even if anyone could see at a glance that it looked unfinished. “Do you think the goons would fall for this if they come back?”

“I think they'll kill you if you try,” said Ben. “Just pay Stavros what you owe. Or lay low for a bit. Please.”

“How do you expect me to find eighteen hundred dollars?” wailed Klaus. “Getting two hundred nearly killed me.”

He leaned his forehead against the brick wall of the strip club exterior, feeling his lungs seize up. No money for drugs. No money for a gun. No money for his debt. The walls were closing in on him. Klaus's only tried-and-true solution for when the world felt like a giant mausoleum was a fat syringe full of heroin, but he'd just pissed away over a week's worth of hits. Suddenly, there was no air anywhere, the scents of moss and mildew suffocating him, and everything was dark and cold—

“Klaus, sit down,” said Ben, in a soothing voice like he was speaking to a sick child. “Take deep breaths, okay? Stay with me.”

Klaus nodded meekly and sat down. He closed his eyes and concentrated on Ben's words. Gradually he regained control of his lungs. There were times when Ben was the best dead brother a person could ask for.

“We can brainstorm a plan in a bit,” said Ben. “Right now, just clear your head.”

“Okay,” said Klaus. He pulled the half-finished bottle of Jack Daniel's out from his coat and took a long swig.

Ben sighed. “Not what I had in mind.”

As the burning whiskey trickled down his throat, his stomach roiled. Klaus knew his window of opportunity before withdrawal incapacitated him was getting narrow, so he needed to act. It was time for his favourite game, the same depressing game he played every fucking day of his life, called How Will I Buy Drugs Today?

He went down the list. Dealing again was a hard no if Klaus couldn't restrain himself from getting high on his own supply. Panhandling would net peanuts. Shoplifting worked for small amounts, but nothing worth as much as he needed resold would be left unguarded on the shelf. Thanks to Gordon, he'd already pawned what few possessions he had left, even his treasured music player. His family would be no help—this time, none of his siblings would ever believe that the money was for rent or rehab or some life-saving operation. He'd burnt those bridges so badly that they'd leave him to rot even if they thought it was the truth.

That left one alternative.

“Hey, uh, Ben,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Why don't you go read a book or something? Or do some exploring? You know, have some ghost time to yourself.”

Ben narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why?”

“You know how it is when I get dope sick,” said Klaus. “It's not pretty.” He forced a laugh. “Out one end or out the other! Trust me, you want to be far away.”

“Klaus,” said Ben, “please don't do it.”

“Why do you always assume I'm up to no good?” asked Klaus, clutching his heart with as much fake enthusiasm as he could muster. “Ben, you wound me.”

“I'm not that naive, you know,” said Ben. He stared at the ground with a hopeless, heartbroken expression. “You never hide it as well as you think.”

There was a long pause. If Ben was about to cry stupid ghost tears, Klaus was just done with the universe.

“Maybe some people would be better off minding their own business,” said Klaus, not making eye contact.

“I can't stand what it does to you after.”

His fingers twisted around the fringe of his coat. “You poor baby.”

“Klaus, you're already hurt and sick. There has to be a better option.”

“Oh, really,” said Klaus, and now he was getting angry. “Tell me. List every single one of my options right now.”

Ben was quiet. What a shocker. He was always quick to be a moralizing prick and tell Klaus what he shouldn't do to escape this quagmire. But when it came to concrete solutions, suddenly Ben was out of ideas. Unless it was to have a different life, or be a different person.

“You can't force me to leave,” said Ben.

“Is this a game of chicken?” asked Klaus. He looked Ben dead in the eye. “Try me. See which of us has less shame. This is not a fight you'll win.”

Ben let out a long sigh, and Klaus could tell that Ben knew he was defeated. “Just take care of yourself, Klaus,” he said gently. Then he faded away.

When Klaus was alone, he chugged what was left of the whiskey in one long, foul-tasting gulp, almost choking on it. God, did he ever need it today. Then he staggered to his feet. He hoped he could keep it down.

***

Deodorant spray. Hair gel. Mouthwash. Kleenex. A bottle of water. Ibuprofen for his hand. Condoms.

He scanned the shelves of the convenience store, slipping anything into his pockets that he could use to freshen up quickly in a public bathroom. In his pack was makeup and a clean change of clothes, but there was no time to find a place to shower, not with how badly he needed to get high. A couple of blocks from here was a gay bathhouse where you could make an easy thirty or sixty by standing nearby in the right outfit until someone approached you. Usually the someone wouldn't be an undercover cop. But it could take hours for anyone to bite if he dropped too many homeless addict tells, or if he looked like he was about to puke all over the clientele. (Not to mention it would draw the wrong crowd—people who saw his desperation as a selling point, who'd make Klaus want to burn his skin off when it was over. And Klaus was far too close to sober to sleepwalk through it.) This was his favourite store for supply runs. No cameras, few customers, and understaffed.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you need help?”

Klaus bristled, first at the word 'sir' and then at the pimply auburn-haired man standing beside him. Somehow he'd missed him stocking the shelves nearby.

“Nah, I'm good,” said Klaus. “Just...browsing.”

The stock boy's eyes were fixed on Klaus's pockets. “Do you want her to ring that up?” he said, motioning to a young woman with long braids at the counter who was glaring daggers at Klaus.

A flash of annoyance shot through him at the inconvenience. “Oh, uh, sure, I was getting to it.” He thought quickly. “Hey, I have a question. Where do you keep your...potato chips?”

The stock boy looked at him as though Klaus had sprouted two heads. “They're right here—”

But as he turned his back to motion behind him, Klaus bolted. He toppled over racks of chocolate bars and candies as he sprinted toward the exit.

Ten feet away from the door, he felt someone grab his arm.

“You're not leaving,” said the stock boy.

Once upon a time, Klaus knew at least six ways to throw off a hold that flimsy. But he was dizzy and nauseous and a little tipsy, and with all the drugs he'd done since, fuck if he could remember much nowadays from training. Old instincts kicked in, and he tried to drive an elbow into his assailant's sternum, but it was too late, the stock boy tackled him to the ground. Klaus yelped as he landed. Not only was his body was still tender from the beating Stavros's goons had given him, but he'd fallen onto his broken left fingers, so it hurt like a bitch.

“Nice one, Aaron!” said the cashier.

Aaron beamed. “I played football in high school,” he said. “A scrawny guy like this is no match for me.”

“Hey, I used to be an athlete too,” said Klaus, because at this point, he had nothing to lose. “What a coincidence!”

“Shut up,” said Aaron.

“Has anyone told you that you need to work on your customer service?” said Klaus. His arms were free, but Aaron's weight was pinning him down. “Fine. _Fine._ I'll put it all back if you let me go. This was just a big misunderstanding.”

“Don't listen to him,” said the cashier. “I've caught that asshole doing this a dozen times. And he's so brazen he just runs off with half the store right in front of me. Not an ounce of remorse.”

Klaus squirmed like a worm on a hook, trying to escape. Aaron's knee dug into the small of his back. “You're not moving, buddy,” said Aaron. “Keisha, call the cops.”

It was all Klaus could do not to start ugly-crying in front of them both. Not today. Not on top of everything else, not when he was a couple of hours away from a full-blown opiate detox. He imagined a jail cell, the bars unyielding as he clawed at them, stone-cold sober, while around him spirits were shrieking his name and reaching for his throat. His mind raced. This couldn't be it, there had to be a way out...

“Already on it,” said Keisha, the telephone receiver in her hand. “I'm sick of him treating us like an all-you-can-eat buffet—”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” said Klaus.

Keisha stopped. She put down the phone with an expression like she was face-to-face with a ghost.

Aaron opened his mouth, but no words came out. Slowly, he stood up, backing away from Klaus with his arms up.

_This is happening. This is real._

“Why don't you pretend you never saw anything?” said Klaus. He scrambled to his feet, keeping the gun frame pointed at Aaron's head.

“Look,” said Aaron, swallowing. “We—we don't want trouble.”

Klaus felt his right hand shake on the handle. The illusion only worked because when most civilians had a gun-shaped object pointed at them, fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and prevented them from looking too closely. Anyone who'd used a real gun would have laughed in Klaus's face. Thank God they weren't in Texas.

“Good,” said Klaus. His heart was a jackhammer in his chest, and he felt a chill that he knew wasn't just withdrawal. “In that case, I'll be on my way...”

He was about to turn around and leave, back to square one. But then he had the kind of sick stroke of genius that only an addict could come up with. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Just as soon as you empty the cash register for me,” he heard himself say.

“Wait...for real?” asked Keisha. Her eyes widened. “You're actually serious?”

The question threw Klaus off. It was a pretty good one. “What the—what do you mean?” he stammered. “Of course I'm serious! Why wouldn't I be?”

Obviously, that had been too much hesitation, because Aaron took a step forward, recouping his lost confidence. “Leave her alone, you dirty bum—”

“Stay back before I shoot!” screamed Klaus, this time with conviction. Clearly he needed to play the part to sell his bluff.

Aaron recoiled, the blood draining from his face. His entire posture changed, and he shrunk his shoulders inward. Funny how some men acted so macho when they held all the power, but crumbled as soon as the tables were turned.

“Well?” Klaus urged, after they stood frozen for a good ten seconds. The longer the gun frame was exposed, the sooner they would see through the transparent ruse, so Klaus stuck it under his coat and pointed it at Keisha. She flinched in a way that made his gut churn, but it was too late now, he had to see it through to the end.

“I need to ring something up,” said Keisha, her voice quivering. “To—to open it.”

“Gotcha,” said Klaus. “Go ahead.”

Keisha grabbed a pack of gum. As she moved, her earrings jangled. For some reason, Klaus found himself focusing on how they swung in half-circles when she scanned the barcode, how the glass beads sparkled in the fluorescent light. In such a surreal situation, his mind latched onto the most inane details.

Now there was a buzzing in Klaus's ears. He was starting to feel queasy again. This was nothing, he told himself. Just another mission. Dad had forced him on more unpleasant and morally dubious ones than this as a kid. He reminded himself of the money inside that cash register, of what that money could buy, and his queasiness subsided. He needed it. So so badly.

The register popped open. She looked at him, as though waiting for more instructions.

“You can put the money in a shopping bag,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. That didn't come out as forceful enough, so he added, “Hurry!”

She nodded. Her hands were trembling as she took the bills and change out of the register.

There was an awkward silence.

“I like your earrings,” said Klaus, because he didn't know what else to say.

She started to cry.

“Hey, stop that,” he said, because he was getting uncomfortable. “There's no need for that. It's not your money. Just...hand it over, and we can move on with our lives. Come on. You're doing fine. Let's not make this a big deal.”

Neither employee said anything. He didn't know why their silence drove him crazy. There was something he needed right now from them that they would never give, something that he didn't deserve.

She was closing the register now, and he found himself ogling the shopping bag with a ravenous hunger. So close to the prize. Klaus fought the urge to yank the bag away from Keisha before she'd finished outstretching her arm. As he stared at the cash inside, Klaus started to salivate. Suddenly, this felt like a great decision.

No one moved a muscle. Was he just supposed to leave? He didn't know the etiquette for—he stopped himself from completing the sentence. If he named what he was doing, then he became a different person.

“Thanks,” said Klaus. And then he waved. “Have a nice day, I guess.”

***

He sprinted down the street, panting, heart rate skyrocketing. The words _holy shit_ and _HOLY SHIT_ kept running through his mind. Inexplicably, he was laughing.

 _That was me,_ he thought. _I did that._

This didn't change anything, he told himself. It was just shoplifting with the middleman cut out. And that place was probably insured—it wasn't like some faceless insurance conglomerate needed the money as much as he did. Really, it was a victimless crime. This must happen once a week.

When he was at a safe distance, he ducked into an alley. His heart still pounding in his chest, he looked inside the bag and counted out the bills.

One hundred and sixty-seven dollars, not counting all the loose change. Okay. Not amazing, but not a bad start. Particularly not for ten minutes of work. Faster than standing in front of bathhouses.

That wasn't close to enough, though. Fuck, how many more hole-in-the-wall corner stores would pay off Stavros? Did he have it in him to look that many more crying cashiers in the eye?

“That was fast.”

“How did you know to come back?” asked Klaus.

Ben made sarcastic jazz hands. “Spooky ghost magic.”

Klaus noticed that Ben was watching him carefully, as if trying to intuit Klaus's mental state. It got on Klaus's nerves. Jesus, he wasn't made of glass.

Finally, Ben said, “You seem...different.”

“How do you mean?” said Klaus.

Ben scrutinized him. “Are you already high?”

Klaus laughed. “God, I wish. But ask me again in twenty minutes.”

He could tell Ben was suspicious. So Klaus went for his oldest trick in the book.

“Oh, man,” he said, “this one guy—whoa. You would not believe what he was packing. Hung like an elephant, I tell you.” He faked a blissful expression. “It was incredible. I swear, I thought my mind would explode when he was riding—”

“Please stop,” said Ben, sticking his fingers into his ears.

Too easy.

But as Klaus made a beeline for a certain park that always had someone who'd hook him up, he took a moment to really pay attention to how he was feeling. He'd avoided this until now, afraid of what he might find. And the truth was, he was _exhilarated._ Mostly because he was about to mainline himself all the way to Jupiter, granted. But the world was suddenly electric and alive. Overpowering any fear or guilt was a giddy amazement that he'd pulled that off. Motherfucking armed robbery. He'd actually got away with it. The adrenaline rush of flirting with danger and then leaving it with blue balls felt incredible. Breaking the law was one hell of a drug.

For so long, he'd been barely eking out an existence. Bleeding himself dry for one fix, then having to find more blood to squeeze out for the one after that. Scrounging for any small scrap of peace he could find. It was so fucking exhausting. Every morning he woke up at the bottom of a mountain, one that grew just a bit taller and steeper each time he tried to climb it. Nothing ever got better, only worse.

Suddenly, his prison had an escape route. For the first time, Klaus saw that there was money all around him, ripe for picking. And if he was smart enough and quick enough to take it, he would never have to come down again.

He just needed to think outside the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: guns, armed robbery, arresting people (tagging to be safe because of world events), implied/referenced prostitution (and dubious consent resulting from the aforementioned), violence, stabbing, implied/referenced beating/torture, intimidation. Let me know if I forgot anything major.
> 
> I tried to keep all black market prices in this fic realistic, but since search engines told me contradictory things, I had to make some educated guesses. (If I disappear without ever updating this fic again, the government probably has me in a holding cell for questioning somewhere!) So I'd really appreciate if you hand-wave any glaring errors as "in the Umbrella Academy world, supply and demand are different."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to add any more chapter-specific content warnings for violence, threats/intimidation, armed robbery, and guns at this point (unless someone asks for them), because you can assume they're baked into the premise. No chapter-specific warnings this time (unless you count a couple of painful dated pop culture references!)

One hundred and sixty-seven dollars lasted Klaus two days.

When he had no choice, Klaus could barely squeak by on a twenty-dollar-a-day habit and chase the ghosts away with the softer shit. But hand him a wad of cash at once, and it had a funny way of all disappearing into his nose or his arm in a blur that he couldn't remember.

Clearly, he needed to think bigger.

“What do you mean, you want to be alone all night?”

“I'm just saying, I have a bit of a cash flow problem,” said Klaus. “Some privacy would be appreciated. A working girl's gotta hustle, if you know what I mean.”

“All right,” said Ben. There was a note of uncertainty in his voice. “Are you _sure_ you're okay with this?”

Klaus realized his smile was a bit too bright. “I'll manage,” he said, with what he hoped would come across as resignation. “Don't be such a mother hen.”

On 23rd  Ave between 12th  and 13th  St. was a seedy strip mall. Klaus had spent his share of nights sleeping on doorsteps here, wrapped in a dingy blanket to keep out the cold. Sometimes at dawn, when he'd wake up and hurry away before the shopkeepers kicked him off their stoops, he'd pass by a small jewellery store in the complex and do some window-shopping. Through the glass, he'd stare at the jade pendants and gold bangles and garnet rings, wondering how they would look on him. It was a fantasy, of course. Even if he owned them, he wouldn't last a day without selling them for dope.

But thanks to the convenience store incident, he was seeing the world with new eyes. Suddenly, other details about the store were sticking out. Its glass facade, for instance. How the lower-value merchandise was left out in display cases overnight. Really, it was a sitting duck.

At two AM, he stood at a corner near the shop, trying to stop his hands from shaking. There would be no confrontation this time, but it was his first premeditated job, and that was still a hurdle to cross. He hated himself for his weakness. Everyone had always accused Klaus of being the most cowardly member of the team (like they wouldn't all be more cautious about jumping into a fight, if their power had been a useless support ability instead of super-strength or teleportation or mind control). Even now, years removed from that hellhole and happier to piss off the old man than earn his respect, he couldn't escape the old urge to prove them wrong.

To calm his nerves, he stuck a joint in his mouth, fumbled on the lighter with his right hand. As he smoked, he watched the street. It was dark and abandoned, but now and then a passing car would make him jump out of his skin. When he was finished, his hands were steadier and the world hummed with a pleasant buzz. Then he pulled a balaclava over his face.

(When Klaus had been fourteen, the Umbrella Academy had stopped a much more sophisticated burglary at a high-end jewellery store. Four men had drilled in through the rooftop one night, then rappelled down like secret agents, wearing night vision goggles. He imagined how it felt to have the resources to pull off something so elaborate. To have the time and focus to plan a crime for months, instead of a gnawing hunger that hijacked his brain and made it impossible to think more than a day ahead. Why did anyone that powerful need to steal?)

Once he was satisfied that no one was watching, he took a deep breath and swung a crowbar at the glass facade with as much force as he could using only one arm. On the third blow, the window shattered. It felt satisfying. He stepped inside—

An earsplitting alarm blared, making his heart stop.

Shit. So much for that plan.

His insides turned to liquid. But even with the alarm screeching, he found his eyes lock onto the jewellery. In his head, he was converting it all into its value in pills and powders. Leaving now would mean giving up hundreds of glittering chances to score forever.

Klaus gave himself six seconds. One, and he lifted the crowbar. Two, three—he smashed the nearest showcase, full of chains and necklaces. Four—he put the crowbar down. Five—he reached inside the showcase with his gloved right hand, grabbing as many chains as he could at once and shoving them into a canvas bag. But it was difficult with his injury, and he kept dropping them. On six, he told himself, _just a couple more_.

He'd counted up to fourteen when he forced himself to turn around. It pained him to leave so much behind, but he knew he didn't have more than a minute. Cops had a funny way of hurrying over for a place this fancy.

And Ben said he had no impulse control. Didn't this show him?

The more distance he put between himself and the jewellery store, the more his fear transformed into delirious excitement. He was on a side street eight blocks away when the keening wail of police sirens cut through the night's silence. The sound made him grin. Better luck next time, pigs.

It was enough to make him proud of himself for a change. He'd pulled that off, _him._ Weak, useless Klaus who everyone said had fried the only two brain cells knocking around in his skull with substance abuse. The rush was back, and yet—

This time, it was so much more muted. Sure, he'd won and all. But it had almost been too easy. Too _boring._ Just in and out, then it was over. No thrill of the chase, no calling card, no personal touch. And it felt strangely empty without an audience. Even if Klaus knew what had happened, no one else would ever acknowledge he'd done it.

It made Klaus feel invisible. Like the crime had been committed by a ghost. He wanted to be seen.

In the end, this would be his haul:

1\. Four plain gold chains, worth $200 each, sold for a total of $120 to a shady gold exchange store that melted them down for metal without asking questions.

2\. A collection of birthstone pendants, worth $50 each, sold to three different pawn shops at prices ranging from $10 to $20. (“My boyfriend got me the wrong birth month,” he said each time, giving them a fake ID he'd bought at fifteen for clubbing when they recorded the transaction. “Believe me, he's about to become my ex-boyfriend!”)

3\. Six sterling silver crucifix necklaces in different styles, worth $30-40 each, pawned at a fourth shop for $55 for the set. (“I'm agnostic, but my fundie grandma never gets the hint!”)

4\. A gorgeous Swarovski crystal pendant with a blue teardrop, worth about $240. It was too distinctive to pawn, since state law required that pawn shops report all transactions to the police. (In another life, Klaus would have kept it for himself, but this wasn't that life.) He sold it for two dime bags of H to the first dealer willing to take it.

The only thing he traded that night was the crystal pendant.

***

Garbled sounds made it to Klaus's ear. Oh, was Ben trying to talk to Klaus? Right now, Klaus could only see a fuzzy hooded shadow. A thick fog lay between him and the spirit world. Anyway, it didn't matter. Everything was beautiful, and there was nothing to worry about. The sunrise above him was warm and pink like...something pink. He giggled to himself. Underneath him, the park bench was soft. No pain or tension anywhere, as though he were floating on a raft in the middle of a placid lake. It felt nice.

As if from underwater, he made out the words, “...is coming now.” Then nothing again.

“Five more minutes,” Klaus mumbled, letting his head loll to the side.

A shadow was looming over him. He looked up.

“Having a good time?” asked Stavros.

Talk about a buzzkill. “Hey,” he said. “Uh...how are you? Good to...good to see you.” He willed himself to focus on Stavros's blurry face. _“_ Yeah, so...the cash situation—I'm...I'm on it. I swear.”

“It doesn't seem like you're on it,” said Stavros. “It seems like for someone who cries to me about having no money, you always find some when it's time to shoot up.”

Fear seeped in like cold water, dampening his high. “Come on, Stavros. You know that's different.” He thought about getting up, but his limbs might as well have been puddles. Besides, the bench was so comfortable. “Look...I'm sorry, but it was an accident. It's not my fault I got jumped...four times. I tell you, those junkies are savages. And then it was just shitty timing, you know, what with my dad freezing my trust fund out of nowhere. But I'll earn back the dope they stole, I promise.”

More shadows above him. Two burly men stood behind Stavros. One of them he recognized. Right, he'd been the one swinging the hammer that had shattered Klaus's fingers last time. Great to see him again. Klaus groaned. Even if he'd had a working gun, he didn't have the motor control to shoot.

“Forgive me for not being reassured,” said Stavros. “Your track record shows that your promises aren't worth shit.”

Klaus closed his eyes. This was taking too much focus. “What do you expect from me? I can't fucking pull two grand out of my ass. Can't I just...I dunno, pay it a bit at a time?”

“How's this for a bit at a time,” said Stavros. “Do you know what eighteen hundred divided by five is?”

“The hell are you asking me for?” The thought of even attempting mental math right now made him start laughing his ass off. “Ooh, I know! Is it eighteen?”

He heard Stavros mumble to his accomplices, “Sober him up.”

Then Klaus felt himself rising off the bench. The goons were lifting him, one by Klaus's shoulders and the other by his legs. He had no time to react before they flipped him over. A sudden rush of air, and then his face connected with the ground. Something cool trickled from his nose. The taste of blood mingled with the tastes of dirt and asphalt in his mouth. Dull pain, muddled and distant, emanated from points all over his body. His left hand was aching. This was going to be agony when he came down.

“Three hundred and sixty,” said Stavros. “The answer is three hundred and sixty. You have five fingernails on your right hand. For every $360 you pay, that's one we don't tear off. We won't play nice and go for your left one this time.”

For some reason, Klaus found this hilarious. “I'm left-handed,” he said. “Too late for that.”

“Really?” said Stavros. “Oh, well, in that case, my apologies. We've made a terrible mistake.” Above him, Klaus heard whispering.

Then the boot stomped on his right hand. This time, the pain broke through his high, and Klaus screamed at the top of his lungs.

“There you go,” said Stavros. “Is that better?”

Klaus was gasping, shuddering, all witty retorts wiped clean from his mind. He spat a gob of blood onto the pavement.

“You have seventy-two hours to pay,” said Stavros. “And don't try to skip town. We have eyes everywhere.”

For a long time after they were gone, he stayed crumpled on the ground, body heaving with dry sobs.

***

Klaus had forty-six hours left.

“You might need to take the loss here,” said Ben. “There are worse things than missing fingernails.”

“Wow, you're so positive,” said Klaus. “Don't you ever have constructive advice?”

At that, Ben lost his cool. “Since when do you care about my advice?” he shouted, making Klaus shrivel up. “My advice was not to get involved with those people in the first place. And then it was not to steal their drugs. Oh, and then it was to stop stealing their drugs over and over again! It's almost as though everything I warned you would happen is happening. So yeah, forgive me if I'm out of sympathy.”

Klaus said nothing, keeping his head bowed and his eyes locked on the ground. What hurt the most was that he knew Ben was right. Klaus didn't deserve the sympathy he so desperately craved. He never knew why he did half the shit he did, even while he was doing it. It was terrifying, having that little control of himself.

His reaction seemed to take the sting out of Ben's anger, because when Ben spoke again, he was kinder. “It's not too late yet. Do you have any ideas?”

Klaus did have an idea.

“I guess there's no way around it,” said Klaus. “If you don't mind, I need another day to myself. Looks like it's time to work my magic on some boys.” And just to be _really_ sure that Ben wouldn't ask any follow-up questions, Klaus pantomimed sucking and added with a suggestive lilt, “With my mouth.”

Instead of acting grossed out, Ben just stared at him for a long time. “Those boys must like you a lot, don't they?” he said, in a cutting voice. “Buying you all that jewellery. Maybe on the second date, they'll propose.”

Klaus felt his stomach drop. He'd thought his pawn shop excursions had been discreet.

“Yeah, well, they're very generous,” said Klaus.

He met Ben's gaze defiantly, as though daring him to press the issue. Klaus was getting fed up with apologizing for his own life just because Ben thought he was entitled to a piece of it.

Ben only shook his head. Really, what did it matter if Ben suspected? Long ago, his brother would have given Klaus an earful for nicking so much as a chocolate bar, but years of tagging along while powerless to stop Klaus's five-fingered discounts had broken him.

“Whatever,” said Ben, with a remoteness that made Klaus feel like shit. “Do what you want.” Then he disappeared.

***

“Two hundred dollars isn't even enough for the cartridge,” said Gordon with a frown. He was surlier than usual, since Klaus's phone call had dragged him out of bed early in the morning.

“It doesn't need to be loaded,” said Klaus. With the fingers on his dominant hand broken and his weaker hand still red and swollen, Klaus could barely hold a gun, never mind fire one. He wound up asking Gordon to assemble it for him.

It made Klaus sick to give up the money. After buying the remaining pieces of the gun, all he had left was pocket change from the convenience store and a dwindling stash of drugs. But the investment would repay itself in a couple of hours, he told himself.

Really, he was paying for a more realistic prop. Today he would play for a much tougher crowd than Aaron and Keisha.

Then he went to a phone booth and dialed the number for City Taxi. “Hola,” he said. “Listen, I need to book a taxi to 1325 54th  St., under the name Michael. Not now, for 10:20 AM. Yeah, uh, that's after my appointment ends. No, not 10:30. 10:20. This is important. I have someplace else to be.”

Michael was the most common first name in America. 1325 54th  St. was the address of a plaza whose tenants included a medical clinic, two dentists, a physiotherapist, and a notary's office. Just in case the trail wound up leading back there, Klaus prayed that at least someone with that name had an appointment around that time.

Here were the facts: Klaus needed to earn eighteen hundred dollars in two days, or else things would be very painful for him. And he needed it in cash. He didn't have any fences who would buy hot goods off him, nor did he want to leave a paper trail at pawn shops or resell everything for ten to twenty percent of its value.

There was only one place with that much cash available that quickly. It was time for Klaus to join the big leagues.

Outside the bank on 1215 53rd  St., Klaus waited. He knew its layout, its security protocol, and the locations of all its cameras. After all, he'd helped stop a robbery here ten years ago.

It was 9:40 AM now. Almost showtime.

Most bank robberies nowadays are drug-related. Desperate addicts will make an impulsive decision because they need a fix so badly they're willing to risk their freedom for it. Usually, they're complete amateurs. They'll head into a bank, alone and unarmed, and pass a threatening note to the teller. Banks have a policy of compliance, so the teller will quietly hand over whatever is in the cash drawer, often without a single customer suspecting. Then the robber will flee, only to be nabbed by cops anywhere from a few hours to a few days later. In a world of mass surveillance, there are too many ways to be tracked.

More than half of all bank robbers will be caught eventually.

Klaus had one advantage over those people, which was that he was not an amateur. Perhaps no one else on the planet could be more prepared for this—except, of course, for his siblings.

When Dad had sent them out, it meant the robbery had turned ugly—hostages, or bomb threats, or even bodies. The Umbrella Academy didn't come for amateurs. They came for hardened criminals, usually armed gangs who tried to commandeer the entire vault. The kind of criminals who come to the average person's mind when they think of bank robbers.

Compared to them, Klaus was at a disadvantage. He had no getaway car, no partners, no functioning weapon. All he had were his wits and creativity.

In his mind, he walked through the steps of his mission. He visualized entering the building, reciting his script (although much of it he was leaving to improvisation, because it was more fun that way), fleeing out the door. Looking the tellers in the eye and pointing a weapon at them. Threatening innocent bystanders as they cowered in terror. They'd always looked so grateful whenever Klaus had come to their rescue, the bystanders.

Suddenly, he had to sit down. His legs were shaking, and he felt cold and clammy all over. What was wrong with him? Up until now, Klaus had been so excited about this plan. It was easy money that would solve all his problems. But now that he was about to go through with it, out of nowhere the thought made him sick to his stomach. This was no time for cold feet, he told himself, not when this was a matter of survival.

It couldn't be nerves, could it? After all, hadn't he been on the other side of this a dozen times? Whatever it was that he couldn't place, it was getting in his way.

Then he figured out the problem. He went to the McDonald's around the block, where he locked himself in a bathroom stall and did a couple of lines of coke. Then he popped half a bar of Xanax to take the edge off. There you go. Now he was in the right frame of mind.

Raring to go and ready for a fight, he paced outside. When it was almost time, he sneaked into a nearby alley and put on his disguise. A baggy pair of grey sweatpants over his tight leather pants, a ratty purple hoodie over his sleeveless top, the black balaclava over his face. He removed his red Converse shoes and wore rubber galoshes he'd received from a charity drive. As far as costumes went, it was pretty lame, but Klaus hadn't got a chance to shop for a better one with a certain ghost always hovering over his shoulder. With his hood up, he emerged from the alley and walked as nonchalantly as he could to the bank.

He counted to three, then strode in through the front door.

The bank had been open for about five minutes—deliberate timing from Klaus—and there were only two tellers at the counter. The sole customer was a tiny old lady who was hunched over a walker. Great, it had to be an old lady. He hoped the feds didn't tack on a manslaughter charge for giving her a heart attack.

“Everyone raise your hands!” he shouted, with his gun in the air. “Your worst nightmare is here!”

Notes were boring. If he had to do this, he might as well do it with flair.

No one reacted. The two tellers were a man in his late twenties wearing a suit and a middle-aged woman in a polka-dot blouse. They both stared at him blankly. The old lady squinted at him and adjusted her hearing aid.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Klaus. “Don't you know what a stick-up looks like from movies? Come on, put your hands up!”

He caught the tellers exchanging baffled looks, but they complied. The old woman trembled. “I can't,” she said. “I need to hold onto my walker to stand.”

Well, this was off to a rocky start. “Fine, you don't have to literally raise them. Christ.” This was giving Klaus a headache. “You can just...stay out of the way or something. I don't care.”

As he approached the counter, he clumsily swept the gun around the room, rotating between targets. He hoped none of them noticed he was holding the gun like a hot potato in his swollen right hand.

“Okay, people, here's the deal,” said Klaus, and maybe it was just the cocaine, but he was _feeling_ this now, he was on his game. “My friend in the back has a much bigger gun than this. He also has stage fright, and he's not as nice as me. So all you have to do is keep your heads down, not look in his direction, and listen to everything I say. Then you can pretend this never happened. Maybe even milk this for some sweet worker's comp. Capisce?”

The old woman wrinkled her brow. “But I don't see a—”

“What's that, Larry?” shouted Klaus. “No, please don't blow this sweet old lady's head off. She's just confused.”

Her eyes started to water. Dammit, why were there always tears? Klaus had been twelve years old the first time someone had pointed a gun at him. She didn't have to be so dramatic about it.

“You on the left,” said Klaus to the man in the suit. “I want your hands to stay where I can see them at all times.” The man gave a reluctant nod. “You on the right, you're going to put twenty thousand dollars into this bag. As for you—” He turned to the old woman. “Uh, you can just...do your thing.”

The old woman blew her nose into her shawl as she sobbed.

“Come on, don't be like that.” He faltered. “Look, can you please stop crying?” This was getting awkward. He shuffled his feet. “You're not going to get hurt. It's okay. Everything is okay—you, keep your hands up!” The male teller stopped moving his arm. “Don't you dare press the panic button! I've got my eye on you.”

Giving the woman in polka dots the canvas bag he'd used for the jewellery heist was a feat in itself. Without the use of his fingers, he had to shimmy the straps off his left shoulder and onto the counter. “No dye packs or bait money or trackers,” Klaus added, as the female teller opened her cash drawer, cool as a cucumber, and pulled money out. “My friend is watching.” The protocol at this bank during an armed robbery was for tellers to sneak the perpetrator a dye pack disguised as a stack of bills that would explode once he left the building, releasing a cloud of dye and tear gas...except, of course, for when the robber specified no dye pack. Policies of compliance were wonderful.

The teller stared him down after she finished emptying the money. “I'm afraid I only have $1600 in the cash drawer.”

She didn't even break a sweat. Under different circumstances, Klaus would have been impressed. Instead he thought he'd have an aneurysm.

“Then get more, for fuck's sake!” said Klaus, bouncing from foot to foot. The stress was killing him. He should have taken the whole Xanax bar.

“Sir, I'm very sorry, but I don't have the code for the vault,” said the teller, in a saccharine customer-service voice. She gave him a big phony smile that might as well have had “go fuck yourself” written all over it. “This is all there is.”

Klaus wanted to cry. That wouldn't even pay for all of his fingernails, never mind leave anything over to fund his habit. Would he really have to do this a second time?

“I know this bank has more than that,” said Klaus, grinding his teeth. When he'd been twelve, the bank robbers had commandeered the vault in this place. Clearly someone had opened it for them. “You'd better not be playing games. Larry doesn't like games. He'd slit his momma's throat for a nickel.”

“Well, I'm sorry to disappoint Larry,” said the male teller beside her, looking unimpressed. He spoke with a posh British accent. “But no employee knows more than a few digits of the combination. Precisely to avoid a scenario like this.”

If they weren't jerking Klaus's chain, then he had no idea how the team he'd fought had jumped over this hurdle last time. He was kicking his twelve-year-old self for not taking detailed notes from the dead robbers' spirits instead of standing on the sidelines and avoiding eye contact with them.

“Do you expect me to believe you can't open the vault without finagling the whole schedule around it first?” asked Klaus. “That's the dumbest policy ever!”

“The manager arrives at ten-thirty,” said the man. “If you want to wait until then so you can lodge a complaint, by all means.”

Klaus glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already 10:13. Seven minutes left until his ride. Shit. He was cutting it so close.

“No, I _don't_ want to wait until then,” said Klaus. Then because he thought it was in character, he added, “You—you don't want to mess with me. I am the danger. I am the one who knocks!”

“That's marvelous,” said the male teller dryly, “but that won't unlock the vault. I can give you the sixteen hundred in my cash drawer, or you can wait for the manager. Your choice.”

This was playing out nothing like he'd imagined. 10:14 now. “Just...empty your drawer,” Klaus said, feeling a piece of himself die inside. What a disaster. He couldn't do anything right.

The man sighed. “If you insist.” He acted more like he was dealing with a petulant customer than being robbed at gunpoint. His coworker passed him the shopping bag, and he took his sweet time adding the stacks of money one by one. Klaus's hands were twitching in agitation.

“Gary, there's no need to hurt anyone,” Klaus called out to the back of the room. “This gentleman seems reasonable. I'm sure he'll hurry up if we ask, won't he?”

“Don't you mean Larry?” asked the teller.

Shit.

“No, I said Gary. And don't push your luck.”

Finally, the teller handed the bag over. All in all, $3200 was an acceptable haul. Not quite what he'd been hoping for, but enough to pay Stavros and tide Klaus over for awhile.

When he'd been the hero saving this place, his only reward had been a lollipop from the police chief.

“All right, I'm going to peace out, but La—Ga—my friend is staying to make sure you behave. Now you're all going to close your eyes and count to five hundred.”

“Go suck an egg,” said the old woman, flipping him off.

He ignored her. This time, Klaus had a parting line ready. “There's no rest for the wicked!” he cried, right before running out the door. Who said Klaus wasn't learning from his mistakes?

***

No time to waste. At this rate, he wouldn't make it to the plaza in time for his cab. He ducked into the alley.

Behind a dumpster, he'd hidden his backpack along with his red Converses. Now he peeked inside the canvas bag. Inside was more money than he'd seen in one place since his childhood. He started laughing. This much cash would get him so fucked up for so long. Suddenly, a weight was lifted from him. As he grabbed stacks of bills and stuffed them inside his backpack, he realized that he was finally free—

There was a loud pop. Dread sucked the air out from his lungs.

On instinct, he dropped the canvas bag. Just in time. A hiss, and then a cloud of pink smoke was spewing everywhere.

“No, no, no,” he repeated, as if he could change reality by protesting enough. This couldn't be happening. Everything was crumbling around him.

Klaus had specified no dye packs. Unbelievable. Either the bank had changed its protocol in the past ten years, or one of the tellers had a death wish. So stupid. They were lucky his gun wasn't loaded.

He started to cough as the gas hit him in the face. It burned his throat, his windpipe. The balaclava covered most of his skin, but not his eyes and mouth. His eyeballs stung like they were rubbing against sandpaper. Klaus needed to act quickly, but he couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Air was precious now.

Through tears, he saw the pink smoke waft toward the street. It was only a matter of time before someone came over.

Gingerly, he reached for the bag. He yelped. It was burning hot, and he wore no gloves. He held it with his sleeve, dumped its contents onto the ground. Piles of bills spilled out, all splattered with red ink. There was no choice, he had to salvage the money.

He grabbed as much as he could at once. Using both hands, even though he couldn't work his fingers, trying not to cry out in pain. Shoving it into the backpack. He took everything except for the exploded dye pack. There was too much money, the backpack wouldn't zip properly, but there was no time. The first distant siren now. Klaus had mere seconds left.

Upwind of the tear gas, he yanked off his balaclava, the hoodie drenched in red dye. He was about to pull off his galoshes and sweatpants—

“Are you okay?” asked a man in work boots and a construction vest. “I saw smoke—”

He gaped at Klaus. Unmasked and caught literally red-handed.

Without a word, Klaus spun around and sprinted the other way, backpack in tow.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the man called after him.

Klaus had already turned the corner when he realized, _Idiot, you should have pulled your gun on him._ But it was too late, there were witnesses here. He was galloping down the sidewalk of 54th  St. now. Running so fast his sides felt like they would explode. He couldn't stop wheezing. Klaus wasn't in great shape nowadays, and his chest burned. Behind him he heard footsteps, too loud and close together to be anything but a chase.

He dove into a crowd of passers-by. Ducked and weaved through them. Now he was smack in the middle, hidden from view. When they passed a bookstore, he ran inside. The elderly man at the counter was watching him closely, so Klaus slowed to a walk and feigned interest in a copy of Vogue.

He held the magazine to his face, pretending to read, and peeked over the top to watch the door. It made him feel like a spy. Outside, the man in the construction vest ran past the bookstore. Klaus's heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst.

A police car zoomed by in the opposite direction—lights flashing, sirens blaring. Then another.

Klaus stood frozen in the bookstore. Waiting. His legs shook as if they were about to cave on him.

The same man came back. This time, he walked slowly in the direction he came from, looking disappointed. “Stop dawdling,” Klaus wanted to scream at him. “Just move. Don't turn your head.”

By now, the taxi might have left. Soon police would block the entire perimeter, and it would be too late for Klaus.

After fifteen seconds, Klaus put the magazine away. He emerged from the bookstore, keeping his head down and trying to act casual. At first, he strolled down the street as though he had all the time in the world. But without Klaus meaning to, his pace kept quickening. It was as though he could feel hands grabbing at him from behind. Soon he was in a sprint again, discretion be damned. All he could think of was escaping.

When he was one block away, he realized he was trying to run in galoshes. Fuck. He'd left his red Converses in the alley. Also his canvas bag, his stained hoodie, and his balaclava. It was a detective's dream come true.

Well, he needed a better costume anyway.

More sirens. One block. That was all. He had to make it one block.

To his immense relief, a cab was parked outside the plaza. Klaus had wanted to get there early and act like he'd been waiting at the plaza all along, but that plan was out the window now. It was survival mode. Klaus reached for the door handle like a life preserver. Yanked it. The door swung open.

“Michael?” asked the driver.

“Yes,” said Klaus, gasping as he crawled inside and took a seat. “Uh, that's me.”

“I almost left without you,” said the driver. Then he examined Klaus. “Is everything okay?”

“Peachy,” said Klaus. “I just didn't want to keep you waiting. Haha, I need to go to the gym more often!”

The driver pulled out and merged into traffic. As they drove on, three police cars zipped past them. Klaus kept his head down. His eyes were still burning. He fought the urge to rub them.

He realized his pants were splotched with red. So were his hands. But the driver said nothing. Even if he took in Klaus's appearance and wondered what fuss was drawing all those cops, a bank robbery was too outlandish an explanation to be anyone's first guess.

The further they got from the bank, the more the tension in Klaus's chest released. Until finally, a light went on in his head. _I made it._

Holy shit. He'd done it. It no longer mattered that so much had gone haywire. If anything, escaping so many close calls made his victory all the sweeter. He felt so alive. The cops must be tearing their hair out trying to figure out how a stupid burnout like Klaus had outsmarted them. And now he was a successful bank robber. A criminal mastermind. A freaking badass outlaw. He felt a wild grin spread across his face.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, Klaus?”

The grin froze. He turned his head.

Sitting beside him in the taxi was Ben, more livid than Klaus had ever seen him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie _Good Time_ (and to a lesser extent, other Safdie brothers movies like _Uncut Gems_ and _Heaven Knows What_ ) had a huge influence on this fic, but it shows the most in this chapter. The bank robbery scene in particular has major similarities to the one in the movie--mostly because the movie's depiction of bank robberies was extremely realistic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a final chapter count now! This is a pretty short one, because this scene didn't fit well as part of either the preceding or next chapter. The chapter after this will be a monster, though. Content notes in the end.

“Yeah, uh, just drop me off here,” said Klaus. It was a random house in a part of the suburbs where Klaus never ventured. He hoped that even if the cops tracked him to this taxi, the address would be a red herring. His driver said something in response, but it was hard to make out over Ben's screaming.

“Every time I think you can't sink any lower, you find new ways to shock me,” Ben went on, like he had for the past twenty minutes, while Klaus kept his gaze focused on the seat in front. “Do you not have a single scrap of decency left in that sick junkie mind of—”

“Yes, thank you,” said Klaus, a bit too loudly. By now his ears were hurting. He fumbled in his backpack, trying his damnedest not to let the driver see how many bills were in there. Much of it was in fifties or hundreds, but he scooped out two twenties.

“Why is there red paint all over this?” asked the driver.

“Oh,” said Klaus. Shit. He scrambled to think of something. Ben's yelling was breaking his concentration. “I spilled marinara sauce.”

“I can't accept this,” said the driver. “You don't have a card or something?”

“No,” said Klaus. “Nothing.”

His heart hammered in his chest. What were his options? To have a hope of finding a bill that wasn't ruined, he would need to empty his backpack out onto the seat, which was a no-go for obvious reasons.

“Shit, man,” said Klaus, with anxiety he didn't need to fake. “Those are my last two twenties. But I can get money for you in the house.” He could head to the door, then sprint in the opposite direction. Fare dodging would call more attention to himself. There would be a police report, a paper trail. But the marked bill would also leave a trail. All paths were bad.

The taxi driver immediately said, “Never mind, this is good enough.”

Klaus realized that the driver's change of heart was only because Klaus looked like exactly the kind of person who would run off without paying. But still, it was a sign of hope. It meant the money wasn't worthless.

With a wave to the driver, he walked up the driveway until he saw the taxi pull around the corner. Then he pivoted. He started heading down the street, toward the nearest bus stop. Ben was trailing him at a distance, shooting him dirty looks. At least he was quiet now.

The bus shelter was empty when he got there. He sat down on the bench. Bus service to the suburbs was spotty, so this route would only pass every thirty minutes. Sooner or later, the cabby would put two and two together and rat him out, but Klaus hoped it wouldn't be for a few hours. Here he was a sitting duck.

Ben was turning his back to Klaus, refusing to acknowledge him. Somehow this was worse than the yelling.

“Okay,” said Klaus nervously, “I know this looks bad—”

“Oh, it _looks_ bad,” said Ben, giving an incredulous laugh. “Are you saying that it only _looks_ like you just robbed a bank, Klaus?”

“Uh...that depends.” Klaus cleared his throat. “How much did you see?”

“More than enough,” said Ben. “I know you lie to everyone else, but I thought at least you wouldn't lie to me.”

A sudden wave of defensiveness flared up in him. “Well, sue me for thinking you'd react exactly how you're reacting!”

“You think the problem is me being _upset_?” Ben looked disgusted. “That this would be okay as long as I didn't notice? Man, you are truly awful sometimes.”

Klaus flinched and hung his head. He focused upon a piece of gum that was stuck to the bench. “What did you expect from me, anyway?” he said, in a tiny voice. “Don't you know me by now?”

“Apparently I never did,” said Ben, and he sounded so betrayed that it wrenched Klaus's heart. “This isn't just making bad life choices. This is evil, and I don't want any part of it.”

At that, Klaus fidgeted. “Come on, _evil_?” He gave a nervous laugh. “Don't you think that's an exaggeration?”

“How is this _not_ evil?” asked Ben. “It's armed robbery. You're heading into cartoon villain territory.”

“That's some outdated thinking,” said Klaus. “I mean, do you know how much money the _banks_ steal?” He rattled off the list of arguments he'd come up with when he'd first had the idea for this heist. “They charge bullshit fees, foreclose on homes, mislead customers with fake financial advice, make shady investments that tank the economy...” Klaus was pretty sure he'd read an article about it once. “A bank like that earns billions. Those greedy bastards won't even feel a few thousand bucks. If anything, I'm doing the world a service by robbing them. It's, like...praxis or something.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ben. “You're such a revolutionary. Doing it all for the proletariat. Definitely not just to get high.”

“Excuse me?” said Klaus. “Did you also forget the murderous drug lord after me?”

“You mean the drug lord who you stole from, by choice, just to get high?” He shrugged. “That's not an excuse. Actions have consequences.”

Klaus felt a flash of anger, but also of vindication. “I knew it,” he said triumphantly. “I had a feeling that all along, you were hoping for Stavros to send me to the hospital. It would give you some sick pleasure to see me suffer.” A cocktail of toxic emotions was bubbling inside him, and it felt so good just to let the rage and hurt and bitterness spill out in a sloppy mess everywhere. “Deep down you want me to fail. And you know why? Because you're jealous. You never got to have any fun yourself before you died, so you resent me for doing what I want and not having an enormous stick up my ass.”

Ben scoffed. “Only a crazy person would be jealous of you, Klaus.”

“Admit it! You're never actually on my side. Sure, when everything is shit and hopeless, you'll pretend to be all concerned and give me some empty platitude. But when I hustle to survive, because you know, my life is an uphill battle every day and things have been really fucking hard lately, all you do is judge me. Like I have much of a choice. You think I deserve to be miserable. You'd only be satisfied if I hated myself the way you hate me. If I secretly hope to OD whenever I shoot up. It drives you _crazy_ that someone with my lifestyle could ever be happy.”

Hot tears burned his eyes, so he jerked his head away so Ben couldn't see.

“You know that's not true,” said Ben, his tone softening. “Of course I want you to be happy. Do you think I would try this hard if I thought you were?”

When Klaus trusted himself to seem composed, he raised his head again. “Well, maybe I've found what makes me happy. I really think this is my calling in life, Ben.”

The compassion in Ben's eyes quickly transformed to derision. He snorted. “Your calling in life is robbing banks. Right.”

“Weren't you the one telling me to think of career paths that fit my skill set? Here you go. I have goals and ambitions now. Maybe you should support me for once.”

“Unbelievable,” said Ben, raising his hands in the air. “I've never met anyone so good at self-deception.”

“I'm serious,” said Klaus. “Everyone told me I was good for nothing growing up, and I believed them. I was always the weakest member of the team. But maybe the problem was just that I was on the wrong side!” He started to perk up. “No one asked me if I wanted to fight crime. Turns out I'm much better at being a criminal. It's who I'm meant to be.”

“Is this really who you are, Klaus?” asked Ben, giving him a piercing look. “Or is it who the drugs are?”

“You don't get it,” said Klaus. “Being a superhero was so boring. We never got to express ourselves. It was always just following the rules, being strong, conforming. Dad would crush any spark of joy or light we showed." Speaking brought back old memories of a life that felt like someone else's, visions of tables lined with oatmeal, children standing in rows, their shoes polished and ties knotted and hair perfectly combed, smiles perfectly quashed. "Now think about our opponents. Doctor Terminal. The Murder Magician. They had personality. They had _panache_. They did what they wanted without caring what anyone thought.”

“What are you even talking about?” asked Ben. “Is this a roundabout way of saying you want to murder Allison?”

"No! Of course I don't mean that part. I'm just saying, imagine if instead of a hero, I'd been a hammy queer-coded Disney villain!” He closed his eyes and let his imagination run wild. “I'd come up with diabolical schemes, I'd get the best songs and monologues, I'd wear an outrageous costume, I'd be a rebel who got to stick it to the man...”

“Oh, grow up,” said Ben, rolling his eyes. “This sounds like when you were thirteen and started smoking to look cool. Crime isn't an aesthetic. There are victims.”

“It's _my_ aesthetic,” said Klaus. But it ran deeper than that. Klaus didn't know how to articulate the freedom and agency that he felt after pulling off a heist, the breathless joy of just squeaking out of an impossible spot. If life was a boot stamping on his face, then breaking the law robbed the boot of its power. It was as though he was setting the order of the universe right.

“Anyway,” Klaus continued, “if you just got over yourself, you and I could make a good team.” The gears in his mind were spinning. “Think about the jobs we could pull off! No one would suspect an invisible partner. You'd be the perfect lookout, not to mention you could steal so many safe combinations that way...”

“No way,” said Ben, crossing his arms. “I'm not enabling this.”

“Why not?” said Klaus. Time to pull out the shameless manipulation. He gave his best sad puppy face. “You're my brother. Don't you love me? Here you know I'm in trouble, and you won't even help me when it costs you nothing.”

“Give it a rest, Klaus,” said Ben. He was quiet for a bit. When he spoke again, it was more to himself than to Klaus. “Maybe this is my fault. Was I too soft, staying with you for so many years? Did I encourage you to think this is okay? It might have been better if I'd let you hit rock bottom alone. I've tried to help you, but you obviously don't want to be helped.”

Klaus exhaled sharply, bowled over. It was a kick in the face. “If you have someplace better to be, no one's stopping you,” said Klaus, his voice strained.

“I don't mean it like that, Klaus,” said Ben. “You know I wouldn't put up with your crap if I didn't care about you. But something has to change. This has crossed a line, and I don't want to associate with the person you're turning into. I'm losing my moral compass just by being around you. At this point, maybe I should start caring about the people you're hurting instead.”

Something inside Klaus was in slow free fall, spinning out of control. He'd heard far too many variations of this speech—from family, from friends, from lovers—not to see which way the wind was blowing. The vague excuses about enabling and rock bottoms, as though this was all for his own good. The sanctimonious posturing about ethics and life choices, as though they were rejecting him because it was a moral obligation, not just because he was too difficult to love when he wasn't sober. This was always the preamble to “here's why I'm cutting you out of my life.”

But Ben was supposed to be the exception. The person who'd stick with him forever—no matter how bad things got, no matter how much of a trainwreck Klaus became. Klaus wanted to punch him. Or grab his arm and refuse to let go. Neither of those was a possibility.

Instead he said, in a perfectly level voice, “Remind me again. Which of us has killed more people?”

For how Ben reacted, Klaus might as well have punched him. His eyes grew wide, and there was a look in them as fragile as eggshells.

“I get it, Ben,” said Klaus, twisting the knife in deeper. “Heaven didn't want you. So now you're stuck wandering the earth for all eternity with an annoying fuck-up like me as your only pal. But projecting your guilt onto me won't make you less of a monster.”

“You take that back,” said Ben. He was trembling.

“I mean, here I was, feeling like such a bad boy for my grand larceny,” said Klaus. “But that's kid's stuff. Really, I couldn't hold a candle to you! You know, I'm pretty sure I still have my murder V-card. Technically, at least. I've racked up my share of assists—all while _fighting_ crime, not committing it. But you. The Horror. Are you at a hundred? Five hundred? One thousand?”

Ben said nothing. His expression had taken on a tortured, haunted look, as though he'd counted every single one and could replay them all in his memory. Of course Klaus was being a dick. He knew how Ben felt about all this. It was pouring buckets of salt into an open wound.

“Oh, but I forgot,” said Klaus, “they didn't count, because most of them were people like me. Good thing they weren't property! So I guess since you're such a paragon of virtue, you can go back to trying to run my life. What a saint you are for putting up with me. Like we don't both know the real reason you're here.”

By now, Ben's back was turned to Klaus. He was doubled over, and his shoulders were heaving. Now Klaus felt like a piece of shit.

“Ben,” Klaus started, “I—”

But he couldn't find the words. Really, what was there he could say after that?

“You know what? I don't know why I bother. You're not even my brother anymore. You're a heroin addiction on legs.” Ben walked straight through the glass. “Have a nice life.”

For a long time, Klaus sat motionless in the bus shelter, hugging his knees to his chest. His body felt heavy, unwieldy. No cars were passing down the quiet suburban street. Klaus was alone.

It was too many feelings at once, and Klaus wanted out. He thought about shouting more insults into the void, about begging Ben to come back, about apologizing. Or maybe about collapsing in a broken heap on the bench.

Instead he popped a pill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: brief implied suicidal ideation
> 
> Here's an artist's representation of [this chapter](https://66.media.tumblr.com/2b7f53e39aea9bf8b0dddbc39139fd1b/a7538afa13ef28d3-dc/s540x810/8d105687b38b0772a92f1143630010f35f6e3b57.gifv) (link has spoilers for the S2 trailer).
> 
> Updates will be much slower from now on, because the next two chapters need heavy editing and the last one is still incomplete. I'll do my best to have this done before S2 starts, though.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four was originally going to be over 8000 words, but that felt like too much to force you to absorb in one sitting. So I decided you would all hate me less if I broke it in two.

“This had better be worth it,” said Stavros.

“Oh, I promise,” said Klaus. “You won't be disappointed.”

He handed over the paper bag he'd brought to the abandoned warehouse.

“Eighteen hundred dollars,” said Klaus. “Just like you asked for.”

Stavros stared at the bag with skepticism. “Why do I expect this to be Monopoly money?” But he motioned to the two men with him. One of them was Klaus's old friend with the hammer, the other an unfamiliar face—a man who seemed too slender and well dressed to be another bodyguard.

Klaus breathed in the musty air of the warehouse deeply, trying to stay calm. This was walking a tightrope.

The fingers on his left hand still hadn't healed, but his right hand was only a bit bruised now. Even as a leftie, Klaus was delighted with all the possibilities this reopened to him. For one thing, he could work a syringe again. For another, he could pull a trigger.

He'd made another appointment with Gordon, and now the gun in the inner pocket of his coat was loaded.

Just for insurance, of course.

The warehouse was in a decaying industrial zone, where most of the buildings were boarded up and covered in graffiti. Law-abiding people didn't come to this block by choice. No one would hear Klaus scream if things went south.

Hammer Man grabbed Klaus from behind. On instinct, Klaus's body stiffened. He didn't have fond memories of the last two times this troglodyte had manhandled him. Klaus tried to remember how to escape from a hold like this. Something about stomping on an instep—the rest was foggy.

Meanwhile, the slender man was opening the paper bag. Time to see if this worked. The warehouse had no power, so he was using a flashlight to look inside. He held a wad of bills close to the light.

“What the fuck is this?” said the man.

Klaus froze.

“This money is covered with some red shit.”

“Well, excuse me, I didn't know you wanted it for a photo shoot,” said Klaus, but his heart was sinking.

Hammer Man's fingers dug into Klaus's arms. “Is it time for the pliers?” he asked, sounding far too excited.

“Wait,” said Stavros. He knelt stiffly in his tailored three-piece suit. Peering inside the bag, he grabbed a splotchy billfold, scrutinized it.

“It's legal tender,” said Klaus, which was sort of true. So far, he'd had no problems living off the fruits of his labour. Six hundred dollars was squeaky clean, since he'd shoved it into his backpack before the dye pack explosion. With what remained, Klaus was buying lots of vending machine snacks and trying to do most of his drug deals at night.

(On that note, he was doing _wonderfully_ on the substances front. It was such a load off his mind to wake up in the morning and know that an unlimited supply of bliss in any flavour he wanted was an arm's length away.)

Still, he'd made sure to put all of the most damaged bills in that bag. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

“Nick, count this,” said Stavros. “And I want you to sort by what is clean and what is dirty.”

“Am I your dog or something?” snapped Nick. Despite the circumstances, Klaus kind of wanted to give him a high-five. He had a soft spot in his heart for anyone willing to tell an authority figure to fuck off, but pissing off Stavros took extra guts.

“I know your mother taught you better manners than this,” said Stavros. There was no change in his expression aside from a slight tightening in his jaw.

Nick gave Stavros an insolent glare, but he sighed and started counting. He was opening each stack, checking every last bill and holding it up to the light to see if it was counterfeit. Really, Klaus should be offended at the lack of trust. The wait was excruciating. When Nick finished, there was only one pile on the warehouse floor.

“It looks like eighteen hundred, but they all have those red stains. You can't even make out the denomination on some of these. This might as well be paper.”

“How many fingernails is that?” asked Hammer Man eagerly.

“Hey!” said Klaus. “Can't we be reasonable here? We can come to an understanding without violence.”

“Uncle Stavros, he's trying to screw us over,” said Nick, balling his hand into a fist. And Klaus thought, _so there's the missing piece of the puzzle._ Only family could carry that much resentment. “He needs to be taught a lesson—”

Stavros brought a finger to his lip. “Nick,” he said, “it's fine.”

“For real?” asked Nick.

“ _For real?_ ” asked Klaus.

There was a slight smile on Stavros's face. When he spoke again, it was in a soft voice, one a stranger might have mistaken for gentle.

“With a chucklehead like this, you take what you can get,” said Stavros. “We can bleach this money. It's better than nothing.”

The world suddenly felt lighter. Klaus started to laugh in relief. “Wow. Thank you. You're a smart businessman, Stavros. Kudos to you. Glad we settled that debt once and for—”

“Who said anything about settling a debt?”

Klaus had a bad feeling about this. Of course it had been too good to be true. This was Stavros, after all. He forced a laugh. “Here it is. Eighteen hundred bucks. Just like you asked. So if you'll excuse me, I'll get going...”

“That's eighteen hundred,” said Stavros. “But you still owe me another three thousand.”

His heart dropped like a stone. “No...no I don't,” said Klaus. “It was thirteen hundred, plus five hundred interest. We're clear.”

“Yes, for the missing drugs,” said Stavros. “But not for the protection money.”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “Protection money. What do I look like, a restaurant? Would it be a shame if something happened to _this_ establishment? Now you're just messing with me for kicks. You know damn well I don't have three grand.”

“It shouldn't be that hard,” said Stavros. “If your generous Hollywood friends won't help you out, then you can just rob another bank.”

At once, Klaus felt faint. His knees were on the verge of buckling.

“People watch the news,” said Stavros. “Some skinny guy in fucking eyeliner gets caught fleeing the scene, and then you come along and hand out marked bills like candy all over the street. Did you really think none of my guys have noticed? With your lack of discretion, it was bound to happen.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Klaus, but he thought he would throw up.

“I'm just saying, the reward money for information leading to your capture is a thousand dollars. Sooner or later, someone is going to rat your skinny ass out. You might want to consider my counteroffer to avoid prison. If I give the word that you're under my protection, no one would cross me.”

Resignation settled upon Klaus like a heavy blanket.

“So you're blackmailing me,” said Klaus. “You really want to drag the cops into this? It's not like you're such a model citizen yourself.”

“I think you're not comprehending the situation,” said Stavros. “But if this is a threat to snitch on me, well, you can try. Do you want to test what will happen?”

Klaus let out a hysterical laugh. By now this was just funny. It was a never-ending treadmill. The carrot was always just out of reach.

“So what now?” asked Klaus. “Is there another deadline? Can I opt for a payment plan? Do you accept credit cards?” Even if Stavros was bluffing, it was safer for Klaus to act like he was going along with it.

“Really, that's on you,” said Stavros. “The longer you wait, the likelier it is that one of them makes that phone call. I think you want me to enforce their silence sooner rather than later.”

“Two weeks,” said Klaus, defeated. “Just keep them in line for two weeks. That's all I need.” A lot could happen in two weeks.

“One week is as generous as I'll be,” said Stavros.

“Wow, don't overextend yourself,” Klaus managed, but it was a feeble attempt at sass. He couldn't bring himself to fight anymore. Everything felt exhausting.

As Hammer Man released Klaus's arms, clearly dejected at not getting another go at him, it occurred to Klaus that he could whip out his semiautomatic, take them all out. Could he do it quickly enough with his right hand? Of course not. There were three of them and one of Klaus. Not to mention that if Stavros was telling the truth, it would change nothing when Klaus's cover was blown already.

“We'll keep in touch,” said Stavros.

Klaus walked to the door, leaving Stavros and his soldiers behind in the warehouse. With every step, he thought, _now is the moment I could turn around and shoot. They would never suspect it._ But he didn't turn around.

When Klaus was outside, his shoulders slumped. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the daylight outside. He was kicking himself. Maybe he was a coward after all. If he had done it days ago, he would have been free. Well, either that, or tortured and dismembered for murdering a drug kingpin. Definitely one or the other.

Why had he even bothered with the gun in the first place? He'd let his panic blind him. It should have been obvious all along that it would only...escalate things.

Klaus let out a long sigh.

“Boy, I sure got myself into this one, huh, Ben?” said Klaus to thin air.

There was silence.

***

He'd become too ambitious. That was his problem. Klaus should have stuck to small hits on places with weak or no security. Dinky little corner stores in bad neighbourhoods where the police would take thirty minutes to show up instead of two. Why had he messed with a winning formula?

Outside the convenience store where it had all begun, he prepared himself. The balaclava was lost, but he had a scarf. With one hand, he wrapped it around his face. It was nearing sunset, and the street was quiet. Dad used to say that once a business had been robbed successfully, its odds of being targeted a second time skyrocketed. Criminals loved a safe bet.

Right now, Klaus had about eleven hundred dollars left over. That left a difference of nineteen hundred. If he assumed each corner store had about two hundred dollars in its till, he would need ten of them. That wasn't so bad. He could do that in a week. One or two a day. After all, he'd already crossed this line before.

His stomach was tying itself in knots. Klaus felt the overpowering urge to dip into the leftover oxycodone he'd bought when his injury had made faster means of getting drugs into his bloodstream inaccessible. But he needed a clear head for this, or at least a head that wasn't any less clear.

It would be easier if he got into character. He tried to imagine that he was a bandit, living in the Wild West, on the run from the law. With a name like Jackson Renegade. Or Maverick McRebel. A stone-cold killer who marched to his own drum, who rode on a horse from town to town. The thought made him smile.

He clutched his gun. Took a deep breath. It would be okay. It would be over quickly. Then he would celebrate. Everything would be forgotten in the morning.

Jackson Maverick Renegade McRebel stormed in, his gun under his coat and his stance aggressive.

Face to face with the blinking eye of a security camera.

He stopped in his tracks. A hundred conflicting impulses warred in his mind. Finally, one of them won out. Automatically, Klaus relaxed his posture. He slid the gun under his coat into his inside pocket in one smooth, subtle motion.

His eyes scanned the store. No one was stocking the shelves this time. The cashier was a girl with a nose piercing and blue streaks in her hair—Klaus's kind of person. But she was staring at him. Was it his imagination that she'd frozen and turned stiff as a board the moment she'd seen him walk through the door?

“Hey,” he said nonchalantly. He shook his head, trying to seem casual about it, so that the scarf around his face fell to his neck. Klaus hoped she thought it was a fashion statement.

The girl seemed to be relaxing. “Hey,” she said. Klaus could almost read her mind. _See? He's just a normal customer. Don't be so paranoid._

He didn't know what else to do, so he strolled up to the counter. Trying not to blow his cover, as though this was why he'd come all along.

“Can I get a pack of smokes?” he asked.

As she grabbed cigarettes from behind the counter and started ringing them up, something compelled Klaus to say, “Huh, is that camera new?”

“Oh, yeah,” said the girl. “It's only been a couple of days now. Too much theft around here.”

“You don't say.”

“Mostly shoplifters, but the crazy part? We just had an armed robbery. A real one.”

“Wow. That's wild. Who'd have thought?”

“Yeah, that was the straw that broke the camel's back.”

“I bet the boss is counting his lucky stars. That insurance payout will be golden.”

“Are you kidding? The deductible ate everything. Now they want to hike his premiums too.”

“Oh. That's a shame. Actually, can I add this?” Klaus walked over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He put it back. He picked up a bottle of Coke instead. “Here you go. Well, such is the cost of business. Part of the budget.”

“To be honest, the camera cost more than the money stolen. But insurance, you know? And I told my dad I wasn't coming into work anymore without one. I didn't feel safe here.”

“Your dad?”

“He owns this place. I just work a couple of shifts a week after school.”

“Ah. Dads. I hear you.”

“Mine is okay, I guess. You know. For a dad.”

“I guess as fathers go, you could have done worse.”

“Yep. Your total is $15.50.”

“Swell. Thanks. Uh, you know what? I am _starving_!” He reached down, grabbed a pack of Skittles, and put it on the counter. For some reason, it didn't feel like enough. “Hang on.” He didn't know why, but he walked back to the fridge. He got the bottle of water as well.

As she scanned the new items, Klaus rested his forearms on the counter and stared at the ground. He was still keyed up, as though after preparing himself for a confrontation, his body hadn't quite adjusted to the change in situation.

“I just keep thinking it could have been me, you know?” said the cashier.

Klaus's head snapped upward.

“It's so scary,” she said. “At any moment someone could walk through this door and point a gun at my head.”

“No one was hurt, though. I mean, I'm assuming.”

“I guess. Still, there was a gun and everything. It could have easily gone off.”

“Nah. You...you can't think like that. I'm telling you, people who rob this kind of place are all bark and no bite. Half the time they'll just stick two fingers under their shirt and call it a gun. It wouldn't shock me if he wasn't even armed. Or they. Or maybe she, I shouldn't be sexist!”

“It looked pretty real to the two who saw it, but they're gone now.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah. I don't blame them. Aaron quit right after it happened. He said he's never working retail again.”

“Oh, Aaron. I know him. I used to play football with him. Not on the same team, though. A shame he doesn't work here anymore. But really, no one should work retail. No offence, of course!”

“Not everyone has a choice. He might change his mind when the rent is due. But my friend Keisha is on medical leave now, and I think that's it for her.”

“Medical leave?”

“Got a note from a doctor that she can't come to work because of PTSD.”

“Huh. Smart girl. Those doctors will write notes for anything.”

“No, things have been rough for her lately. She already had some personal stuff going on, but the robbery made it so much worse. She's thinking of dropping her classes this semester and everything. She can't concentrate anymore. Like, who could blame her? Someone just stuck a gun in her face. I would get panic attacks too if it were me. It's just messed up. The whole thing is horrible.”

“Horrible,” Klaus repeated. “I need a—actually I—let me get something.” He walked over to the fridge in the back. “The liquor laws in this state are ridiculous. Why can beer be sold in corner stores, but not spirits? I swear, it's easier to get your hands on meth than on vodka around here. It doesn't make any—it's ridiculous. Just ridiculous.”

“Right,” said the girl, giving him a puzzled look. “Are you okay?”

“Oh. Fine.” He grabbed a case of the cheapest piss water beer he saw. He slammed it on the counter. It made the register shake. “It's just...I think I might...maybe I...you know what? Never mind, I don't need this anymore.” He grabbed the Coke. He put it back in the fridge. His hand froze on the bottle. He didn't know what he wanted. He couldn't think. His mouth was dry. He changed his mind, grabbed the bottle and twisted the top off. He took a swig.

“Uh, you need to pay for that,” said the cashier.

“Sorry, what?” He felt lightheaded. The sugar was helping, but not enough. “Uh—sure. Yeah. Just ring it up again.”

“That'll be $36.18. Is that all?”

“Sure. That's...that's great.” Klaus approached the counter. “Oh. Here.” He slapped down a hundred-dollar bill. A clean one.

As she opened the register, he shoved the water and Skittles and half-finished Coke into his pockets. He opened the pack of cigarettes, stuck one behind his ear. The case of beer was more challenging. His right hand was still too sore to carry the weight for extended periods of time, and when he tried to support with his left hand, he had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out. He dropped it to the ground.

“Do you need help with that?”

“Ugh—sorry. I'm good.” He raised his hands and waved her off. For whatever reason, his reaction seemed to worry her. After a long struggle, he got the case in his arms.

“Oh, wait, I forgot to ask for ID,” said the girl, lowering her eyes. “Sorry, I'm new at this.”

Klaus laughed so that he wouldn't cry. “Sure. Not an inconvenience at all!” He put the case back down. Out of an abundance of caution, he gave her his fake ID. Every second she spent staring at the birthday was torture. Finally, she handed the card back to him. In the end, he caved and asked for help, but the case was so heavy that even with two people, her arms were shaking as she helped him lift it. He marched toward the exit while hugging the case.

“You forgot your change!”

The door was open now. He leaned into the cool air. Taking fast breaths, letting the breeze strike his face.

“It doesn't matter. I don't have time. Buy yourself a...I don't know. Something you like. Keep it.” He winced, struggling with the case. “Or...you're a good friend, aren't you? Why don't you pick up a card for Keisha? Maybe some flowers. You seem like a nice person. I dunno, do something nice for her. Whatever it is that nice people do.”

An inscrutable expression crossed her face. “Wow, that's so—”

But he let the door close behind him before he could hear the rest of her sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: do references to PTSD need a content note? Whatever, it doesn't hurt to throw one in!
> 
> I feel bad breaking off at an awkward point, particularly since I think the second half of the original chapter was a lot more exciting than the first. So Chapter 5 will be up in 1-2 days, once I finish a few edits.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a dark one. :( (Not going to lie, I had anxiety over posting this!) Full content warnings are in the end notes, but this chapter has a pretty unpleasant sequence with some possible triggers, including (putting this one on top because it's so common that I might as well spare some people the risk of spoilers) a couple of brief (like 1-2 lines) and non-explicit depictions of sexual encounters that are implied to have dubious or outright no consent. So instead of "***", I marked off the beginning and ending of the scene with "+++" , and also added handy anchor tags to make it easier for you to jump immediately to the end and pretend it doesn't exist. Although I recommend reading the sequence for characterization reasons if none of that is a deal-breaker, you won't miss any plot points aside from some foreshadowing by skipping it.

The bench on the hill overlooked a man-made lake. Klaus was staring down at the water as he smoked. Ash dropped from the tip of his cigarette, and he idly wondered if it was possible to let the fire creep up, up to his lips until it burned him away.

He felt like the personification of a dirty syringe, or a used condom, or mould growing on shower tiles. Seedy and scummy and tainted. Below, a little boy was feeding bread to the ducks by the water bank as his father watched. Both of them were laughing. Klaus found it hard to believe he was the same species as them.

Then a reckless impulse took hold of him. He had the urge to do something wild and manic, like swerve a car off the road and slam the acceleration pedal until he was careening off a cliff. At once, he stubbed his cigarette out on the bench. Like someone possessed, he fished through his backpack for one of his pill containers, scooped out two oxys, swallowed them. He popped the tab of a beer can, washed down the pills with a long unbroken swig. It really did taste like piss water, but the important part was it went down easily. He wasn't supposed to mix opiates with alcohol, but then again, he wasn't supposed to do a lot of things. And nowadays oxys were practically candy for him. There was a reason he'd switched to needles in the first place.

He knocked his beer back, tossed the empty can onto the grass. His very presence on the bench might as well be litter. What were a few extra cans?

As if a motor were driving him, he was tossing more pills into his mouth, grabbing another beer, downing it as quickly as he could manage. He could feel himself start to unravel, and as always, his reaction was to pull even harder on the loose threads. On his third or fourth or maybe seventh drink, he leaned back, stared at the sky above him. It was starting to spin.

He wondered dizzily if he was a blight, and if everything he touched became poisoned, including himself. A stain that never stopped spreading. His thoughts were getting loopier, bleeding into each other. Maybe he was already dead. The bench lurched. A hollow shell. The core of himself excised, the person he'd once been gone forever.

All in all, Klaus felt like shit.

+++

Klaus felt fantastic. Klaus felt amazing. Klaus felt on top of the world.

The club was brilliant, blinding, pulsing with rainbow light. Around him were beautiful people, packed together like sardines as they danced. His heart was bursting with a synthetic, ankle-deep love for them all. He wanted to run his fingers over their skin, to melt into them all (and god, he must be wasted, because was he even listening to himself now?)

He wasn't quite sure how he'd got here. Most of his memories of the evening were fuzzy, although he dimly remembered restocking on drugs and picking up a lot of MDMA at some point before blacking out. But it didn't matter. The important part was that he'd made it, he was free. This was what he chased after, the feeling of no past, no future, just living in the moment. His mind obliterated by bliss and sensation. Just a body, writhing on a dance floor.

As the bass thrummed and vibrated through his spine, a woman was grinding against him, Klaus's hand on her ass because he was classy like that, and now she was offering him a—

—and suddenly he was doing a body shot off someone, a man this time, whose bare muscular torso glistened with sweat. Klaus tasted salt and tequila, and now he was taking his own shirt off, tossing it to the floor and climbing up onto the bar. It made him feel so happy and liberated, soaking up the attention, shouting that it was his turn—

He was snorting lines of white powder through a cut drinking straw off a table in the VIP room, his sinuses numb, and someone was cheering him on. He fell backward onto their lap with a high-pitched laugh, luxuriating in the physical contact, and he was ecstatic, his heart was pounding and his face was unbearably hot, but the important part was that he was having fun, and the music was so loud—

—on his knees in a bathroom stall, everything was too bright and the room spun, but he looked up, and above him was a man whose pants were around his ankles, so Klaus leaned in and—

—dancing, stumbling, jostling bodies whose faces were too blurry to see. There was a drink in his right hand. It kept spilling as Klaus let his arm slump, forgetting it was there, but the world was shining, and at each thump of the beat, colours swirled around him in a kaleidoscope, so he kept moving—

—in a bathroom stall covered with vomit. Slumping with his head over the toilet, his stomach aching. He retched all over the seat, missing the bowl. The floor tilted beneath him, and he was clutching the rim of the toilet to stay upright. And he started to panic, this wasn't good, he was wasting all the booze and drugs he'd put into his body now, if this kept up he might become sober again, he fumbled through his pockets and pulled out more pills, he wasn't sure what they were—

—outside, screaming at the bouncer, because he was furious, he didn't know why, but yelling that he had a right to enter, he was a paying customer, and he gave the man a shove, but instead Klaus only lost his own balance and toppled over—

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the sidewalk. Everything was still rose-tinged and fuzzy around the edges, but he felt a creeping sense of dread that was always the start of a bad comedown. And he didn't want it to sink its fingers into him, didn't want it to drag him back down to Earth, he had to outrun it before it could catch up, to launch himself higher and higher into the stratosphere, so he swallowed some Adderall and some molly and a Klonopin and the last of his oxys and then stumbled to his—

—running down the street, laughing, spreading his arms out as though he could fly, and the sky above him was a robin's-egg blue, not a cloud in—

—and somehow he'd wound up at a liquor store, holding a litre of vodka in his arms, but the man at the cash was arguing with him, he wouldn't let Klaus pay for it, Klaus didn't understand, he wasn't following the plot, what was wrong with his—

—handing bills to someone, the sky deepening to indigo as the sunset dipped below the horizon, because this was too slow for him, he needed to take it up a notch, and he was quivering with excitement, soon he would get more—

—and music was pounding again, but he didn't recognize this club. He was leaning against the bar for support, and he ordered six shots, telling the bartender he was buying a round for friends, but then he downed them all at the bar without even trying to hide it. His stomach was cramping, and his head was killing him, and his throat was parched, he wasn't sure if he'd drunk any water today, but the pain was oddly satisfying, the feeling of punishing himself and pushing himself far past his limits, and he couldn't stop now, he needed—

—lying face down, tasting the woolly carpet in his mouth. Someone was on top of him. He felt a jolt of pain. He couldn't move. He was so sick, and he was dizzy, and then he realized that he was naked—

—stumbling down a dark street, his hands shaking badly, he forgot what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he would trade his life for—

—in a park, lining up pills on a bench, using his lighter as a pestle and crushing them into a multicoloured powder, and he didn't even know why anymore, only that he had to continue, he couldn't stop, so he took out a red-stained bill and rolled it into a—

—and he was on the ground, sobbing into a tree trunk, holding on for dear life, crying that he wanted to die, and a stranger was asking if he was okay, should someone call an ambulance, but Klaus said—

Harsh fluorescent lights. A white ceiling above his head. The medicinal smells of bleach and rubbing alcohol. His stomach was screaming in pain, his throat burning. He was lying on a bed with a needle in his arm, attached to a plastic bag. And although he didn't know how he'd got here, he knew enough to realize he needed to get out, so he yanked out the needle, pulled himself to his feet, squinting to keep out the blinding light. He heard someone call after him as he ran stumbling down the hall, but he didn't look back, and when he was halfway down the stairs he reached into his pocket and swallowed a—

He was so weak, he felt his knees buckle, he took something he thought maybe was an amphetamine, he wasn't sure, but he needed to stay awake, or else he'd be sober when he opened his eyes again—

—lying with his head on a woman's lap. They were on a threadbare couch, in a dingy room with peeling paint on the walls. There were ashtrays and empty fast food containers and soda bottles on the soiled carpet. Around them were shouts, music from upstairs, the sounds of a couple fucking on a mattress a few feet away. She was tying him off, he was so grateful, he was too much of a mess to do it himself, and she was holding a spoon in her hand, preparing the needle, and at its prick in his skin he felt a reflexive anticipation and waited for the rush to—

—coughing, sputtering, he couldn't breathe, and then spindly arms grabbed him and rolled him over, and he was puking over the side of the couch, someone rubbing his back—

—a glass pipe in his mouth, burning his lips, and as he breathed in smoke he felt his mind explode with euphoria and—

—he was shrieking, clawing at his skin, pulling his hair out, a familiar voice was telling him to stop, none of it was real, but Klaus said he couldn't, because there were ghosts, and they were trying to murder him, let me out Dad, please let me out—

There was a sharp pang in his abdomen. His head was spinning, he could barely stand on two legs, but he was too wired to sleep. It was a ride he couldn't get off. He slumped against a building, hunching over and feeling vile. His stomach emptied, and this time he saw he'd coughed up blood. And something was missing. For some reason, he wasn't happy. He was desperately turning out his pockets, ingesting whatever pills and powders he found as quickly as he could manage, ignoring his body as it screamed its protests. But it wasn't working. It wouldn't stick. Like he was trying to scoop joy into a bucket full of holes, and everything was leaking out—

—he wanted to sink into the ground, to feel nothing, let the warm drowsiness overtake him. Everything heavy and numb, his mind and body shutting down. The world was turning blurry, black. But someone was telling him no, Klaus turn around, Klaus walk toward the street, get help—

—and he lay on his stomach, tasting the dirt.

+++

“Good morning.”

Klaus blinked and opened his eyes. Immediately he regretted it. The glaring sunlight was a spike driving into his brain. He thought his head would split open.

He was lying on the ground, in an alley that reeked of vomit and piss. Klaus could only hope the smell wasn't him. His teeth were all furry and grimy, and he tasted something rancid in his mouth. He let out a groan. It sounded raspy and broken, as though he'd fried his vocal cords.

“You know, they pumped your stomach,” said Ben. “Do you remember that? You almost died. But you walked right out of the ER before they could stop you. And then you kept going. That's the really messed up part. You just kept on going.” He shook his head.

“Fuck,” said Klaus. Speaking hurt his throat. His whole body hurt. But on the bright side, all the fingers on his left hand were bandaged and in splints. Well, that was new. “How long was I out?”

“About sixteen hours,” said Ben.

That would explain the sweating and joint pains, then. As if he needed withdrawal on top of the mother of all hangovers. Normally his habit was an alarm clock, so he must have been out cold to sleep in for this long.

His coat was gone. So was his backpack. For the life of him, he couldn't remember where he'd left them. He dug his right hand into the secret inner pocket that he'd sewn into his tight pants, searching for his stash. It came up empty.

Klaus started to freak out. He looked through all the hidden pockets in the lining of his shirt, his shoes, even his underwear. There was nothing.

“No,” he said. “Where did all my pills go?”

Ben stared at him with that impassive look he always had after Klaus had fucked up. “Where do you think they went?”

This was awful. He thought he'd secured enough of a supply to last for awhile. Did Klaus really have to buy more already—

“Wait a minute,” said Klaus. Most of the cash had been in his backpack. He checked his wallet. It was empty. Horror was dawning on him. “The money. What the fuck happened to the money?”

“The same thing that happened to the pills,” said Ben.

Klaus thought he was about to hyperventilate.

“But that was eleven hundred dollars,” said Klaus. “You can't be serious. It must be wherever I left my bag. I couldn't have spent it all in one day. That would have been crazy.”

“You didn't,” said Ben. “You spent about nine hundred dollars in four days. The last two hundred was stolen from your wallet at the crack house.”

“The _what_?”

“I tried to wake you up when it was happening,” said Ben. “You were too out of it to listen.”

“Shit,” he whispered, and it felt like a ton of bricks was crushing his chest. “I needed—but that was the money I—” He buried his face in his hands. “How could I have done that?”

“I don't know, Klaus,” said Ben, giving him the same impassive look. “How could you have done that? Ask yourself that question. Has a light bulb gone off yet?”

He wanted to cry. The guilt and humiliation and self-loathing after a massive bender were always the worst, but now they were compounded by the knowledge that all the robberies had been for nothing. Klaus was back to where he'd started.

“I'm so stupid,” Klaus moaned. “So, so stupid.”

“You're not stupid,” said Ben. “That's the worst part.”

There was still a tension in the air, a hesitation before Ben spoke that meant something was being left unsaid. Klaus decided to be the one to breach the gap between them first.

“Ben,” said Klaus, “what I said before, I didn't mean it—”

“I know you didn't,” said Ben. He was looking away from Klaus. “You were just trying to hurt me.”

Klaus's insides writhed with guilt. “I'm so sorry.”

“It doesn't matter,” said Ben. Then bashfully, he added, “I wasn't exactly being gentle with you either.”

“Let's be honest, I had it coming,” said Klaus, with a weak grin. He stood up. With a sinking feeling, he realized that the smell was almost certainly him. He wished he could crawl into a hole and never come out.

“Why did you come back?” asked Klaus. “I thought you didn't want to associate with me anymore. You obviously don't like me. Did you get bored of being alone? Decide watching me make an ass of myself was the best postmortem entertainment you could get?”

Ben was quiet for a bit, as though he was considering his answer. Then he let out a long sigh.

“Because you're not well, Klaus.”

“Tell me about it,” said Klaus, clutching his throbbing head. “Christ, I feel like I'm about to puke out an internal organ.” He forced a laugh. “My money's on my spleen, but I'm taking bets!”

“No, Klaus,” said Ben, something unbearably sad in his expression. “That's not what I meant.”

There was an awkward silence. Klaus hung his head in shame.

“You already know what I'm going to say,” said Ben.

“It's too late for me, Ben,” said Klaus quietly. “You'll be happier if you just accept that. Getting your hopes up will only hurt you again.”

“You can't just give up. You can still get help—”

“What's your suggestion?” asked Klaus, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I go back to rehab? Because the last two times were such roaring successes—”

“I'm not saying it's easy,” said Ben. “But what's the alternative? You have to realize this isn't sustainable. What are you going to do, rob a bank every day just so you can afford to get high enough to forget that you're robbing banks? Until you finally wind up dead or in prison? You need to break the cycle now.”

Klaus stared into space. He let out a long, painful breath. “Ben, I don't even know where I'd start.”

“You start by taking it one day at a time,” said Ben. “Not by psyching yourself out before you even begin. What does it cost you to try?”

“It's not that simple,” he said. “I can't—” But he couldn't continue. It was too hard to put into words. Too pathetic to admit even to Ben. How did you tell anyone that you'd known you weren't in control for years and still couldn't stop? That the only thing you looked forward to every day was sticking a needle in your arm, even though each time made you loathe yourself a bit more? Dignity was such a scarce resource for Klaus that he might as well hang on to the last few scraps he had.

“I know you can,” said Ben, with an earnestness that was touching, if wasted on Klaus. “You just have to take that first step. And when you do, I'll be right there with you.”

It all sounded so absurd, so impossible, like telling Klaus he could grow wings if he put his mind to it. But all the same, Klaus felt a surge of gratitude toward his brother. After all, it was the thought that counted.

“I love you, Ben,” he said.

The despair in Ben's eyes was enough to break Klaus's heart in two.

“No you don't,” said Ben, looking away. “But I appreciate the thought.”

***

Enough was enough. Clearly, a life of crime was not agreeing with him. Klaus decided to try making an honest living.

He tried begging on the corner. After two hours, he made five dollars. He felt so shitty that he ran off to the park, tried his best to wheedle a dealer into giving him a bag for only five dollars, but no one obliged him, even when he offered to sweeten the deal with a pair of shoes, a hat, the clothes on his back, a rushed hand job, whatever they wanted.

He tried standing outside the bathhouse. Everyone walked past him. The longer he waited, the harder it became to ignore his body's and his brain's complaints. Soon he was calling after the men who went inside, dropping his prices and becoming more insistent, until finally an employee came out and told him to get lost or they would call the police, he was scaring away business. It was a blow to what was left of his self-respect. What kind of high-class establishment did they take themselves for, anyway?

He tried sucking it up and heading to the hospital, after first tearing off the bandages around his fingers. “My fingers are broken,” he said, while dead code blues howled around him. “God, I'm in so much pain.” As the doctor did the X-rays, set the bones in place again in new splints, Klaus was fidgeting, trying to hide his shivering, dropping as many hints as he could. Finally, he said, “I've tried Tylenol and Advil, but I think the only thing that would work is morphine.” The doctor politely told him that no, they would not be giving him morphine, he was already on a blacklist here. Also, that his injuries did not look accidental, and that breaking his own fingers for drugs was draining resources from good people who actually needed the help. Klaus wanted to break _something_ , all right.

He even tried stopping his search and getting clean. For two hours. But then as the shaking and sweating got worse, a cold clarity seeped into his mind. Memories he tried to jump away from like the touch of a hot stove were flooding the space the drugs had filled before. Suddenly, reality seemed like an impossible slog through pain and misery, and Klaus thought he would do anything, even saw off his own arm, or cut out his own soul, to avoid it. Even if he made it past the ghosts and the withdrawal, when those were gone, he would still be left with himself. And that was company he never wanted again. By the time the first dead woman clutching her own entrails appeared, Klaus had changed his mind. He could try again another day. Or another year.

It was useless. He had nothing—

No, he realized. He had one last thing.

“Klaus, I'm begging you. Don't give up this easily.”

“I told you not to get your hopes up,” said Klaus, staring ahead with grim determination. They were walking down a street not far from the warehouse where he'd met Stavros. “No one's forcing you to watch.”

“Have you learned absolutely nothing from any of this?”

Klaus spun around on Ben. “What does it matter what I've learned?” He sounded unhinged even to himself. “I don't have a choice.”

By some miracle, he'd found his coat and backpack—there was a key in his wallet, and Klaus pieced together that it was for a storage locker he rented sometimes. Apparently, even while wasted, Klaus had had the presence of mind to stuff his belongings somewhere before hitting the town.

Of course, the money and drugs were all gone. But in his coat he still had the gun.

“Excuse me,” said Klaus, approaching a man on the corner. Klaus was wearing a hat and sunglasses. “Are you Blake? I was told you could hook me up with some H.”

In the circles Klaus frequented, word was that this guy's shit was cut half the time with bleach and the other half with fentanyl, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The important part was he didn't know Klaus.

“No idea where you got that impression,” said the man, but Klaus knew he was only playing the game. “Who told you something that ridiculous?”

“Craig McMahon said he bought a batch from you,” said Klaus, leaving out the part where the batch had almost killed Craig McMahon.

The dealer gave Klaus a once-over. Klaus knew his appearance and twitching hands were as much of a testimonial that he wasn't a narc as Craig's reference.

“How much are you looking for?”

“Depends,” said Klaus. “How much would you give me for a gun?”

When Blake's eyes brightened, Klaus knew he was set. Dealers loved guns, particularly the kind that couldn't be traced back to them. Their profession had too many occupational hazards.

“It would depend on the make and caliber,” said Blake. “Meet me at ten PM at Lime Ridge Park.”

Klaus let him see his agitation. “Come on,” he said, hopping up and down. “I need it now, man. If I have to wait that long, I'll just go to my regular guy.”

Blake seemed to be sizing up Klaus, mulling it over.

After a few seconds, he said, “Come with me.” The street was empty, but all the same, he motioned Klaus to follow him. They turned into an alley.

“Please, Klaus,” said Ben. Klaus turned around so that he wouldn't be facing him. Ben popped in front of him, and Klaus turned around again.

“Show me what you've got,” said Blake.

They stood behind a fire escape, positioning themselves so that the goods wouldn't be visible to anyone on the street. Klaus pulled out the gun, showed it to him.

“I could give you half a gram for that,” said Blake.

That meant Klaus had spent four hundred dollars on a gun worth two hundred dollars that he would be trading for about fifty dollars of product. Not exactly a sound financial decision, but it would be far from the worst one Klaus had made in his life.

“That'll do,” said Klaus. He gave a rueful smile. “This thing has only brought me trouble.”

“Put it on the ground,” said the dealer.

Klaus shrugged. He took a step forward. “Okay, sure.”

He knelt, put the gun by his feet.

Blake reached inside a beat-up backpack. He was digging underneath what looked like a fake bottom. Then he pulled out individual dime bags, counting them out one at a time with his back to the street. Klaus kept watch.

Suddenly, Klaus called out, “Hey, what are you doing here? Mind your own business.”

The dealer turned pale. His hands froze on the dope, and he turned his head—

Klaus feinted to the left. Just as Blake swung his arm out, Klaus dropped to the ground. Number Four, never telegraph your actions, said his father's voice in his head. Your opponent must always believe your next move is the opposite of the one you'll make. One fluid motion, and Klaus grabbed the gun, then jumped to his feet. Number Four, when in a defensive stance, keep your centre of gravity low and your knees bent and your legs two feet apart to maintain your balance. A click, and the safety was off.

“I'll be taking that,” said Klaus, pointing the gun at the dealer. He was impressed at how steady his hand was. “Matter of fact, I'll be taking all of that.”

Blake laughed. “Wow. You got me, man. Props to you.”

“This isn't you, Klaus,” said Ben. “Don't you see that?”

“Empty the bag for me,” said Klaus to Blake, and he felt a rush of excitement. “I want whatever you have.”

“It's not too late to walk away,” said Ben.

“Fine,” said Blake. With slow, deliberate movements, he shuffled through the bag. He fished out what looked like a brick of heroin and threw it on the ground right in front of him. “It's here if you want it.”

Klaus felt his gaze lock onto the drugs. It made it easier to tune out Ben's look of revulsion. Why had Klaus ever bothered pretending he was a person? Whoever he'd been trying to fool, it certainly hadn't been himself. He could go through the motions of beating himself up for his actions, swear up and down that he would change, that he never wanted to feel this way again, but it didn't matter. The next day, he would do it all over again. In the end, nothing—not guilt or compassion or even Ben—could ever reach him the way the package on the ground could. It was a twisted love story. If Klaus could get his fix, he was good, and that was it. Everything else in the world might as well be written in the sand.

A magnetic force seemed to pull him forward. That must be five hundred dollars' worth of smack. So much time and stress had been wasted on more indirect methods. Who knew that all along, it was as easy as taking what he wanted? Klaus lowered his gun and bent down. There was a flash of movement and—

“Klaus,” screamed Ben, “watch out!”

A split second too late, Klaus jumped back. Pain erupted in his left side as the knife tore Klaus's shirt and slashed his skin. He cried out, and the gun clattered to the ground. There was a nasty grin on Blake's face.

Instinct kicked in. Klaus leapt back, dropped to the ground. But now Blake was on top of him, Ben clawing uselessly at Blake with incorporeal hands. The knife was coming toward his throat.

Klaus's knee went to Blake's groin.

Blake grunted and doubled over. Klaus capitalized on his advantage. As though someone had flipped a switch, Klaus was twelve years old again and in the field. He bashed Blake in the eye with the metal splints on his left hand, ignoring the pain shooting through his shattered bones. His right arm fumbled beside him and touched cold steel. He had no motor control with his right hand, he couldn't aim at the side of a barn like this, but without thinking, he rolled over, pointed it—

A gunshot rang out.

The metal burned Klaus's hand, and he dropped the gun. He realized that the side of his ripped shirt was sticky with blood. On quivering legs, he stood up, taking in the scene.

Blake had been propelled backward, against the wall. He let out a gurgling breath. Blinking stupidly at Klaus, Blake raised his hands a few inches, as if to clutch the red wound in his chest, before dropping them forever.

Then he collapsed, falling into the crimson puddle spreading rapidly beneath him.

“Oh, shit,” moaned Klaus, clutching his mouth. “Oh, oh, shit.”

Blake was still.

“Nice going,” said Ben dryly, while Klaus fell shaking to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: depression, self-hatred, self-destructive behaviour, blood.
> 
> Additional +++ sequence content warnings: *sighs* suicidal thoughts, self-harming through drug abuse, a brief drug-induced psychotic break, a _lot_ of vomiting and general ickiness. Let me know if I missed some. "Don't do anything Klaus does in this fic" is pretty solid life advice, but that goes quadruple for this chapter. Trying this at home would probably kill you.
> 
> Spoilers below:
> 
> So fun fact: in my original concept for this fic, Klaus wasn't actually going to kill anyone. It seemed like too big a line for him to cross (also, Klaus not killing anyone was sort of the point). I made an outline, wrote what I thought at the time was most of the story, and then when I got to this part, thought, "let me just add a short throwaway transitional scene to explain where Klaus gets more drugs"...
> 
> ...and then all at once, a bunch of half-formed ideas involving the gun that had already been floating around in my head clicked, and I realized how much better this version was. So things, uh, veered off course (all in a typical day for Klaus!). My rule for this fic has been to always go for the option that escalates things more. Also, now Chekhov's angry ghost won't come after me!


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you alive in there?”

Klaus let out a “mm-hmm.” He was trying to balance a spoon in his mouth while lighting the flame underneath with his trembling right hand. The bathwater was turning cold.

God, it felt good to take a bath, even if keeping his bandaged left hand above water was a pain in the ass. There had been over four hundred dollars in cash in the pocket of the dealer he'd—in Blake's pocket, and now Klaus was splurging on a motel room tonight. It had been Ben's idea. Oddly enough, a lot had been Ben's idea—mopping Klaus's blood off the ground with a sweater they'd burned later, rummaging through Blake's belongings while wearing a glove on his right hand as Ben kept watch, throwing the knife in the river, buying bandages and hydrogen peroxide for Klaus's cut on the other side of the city. For someone who acted like he was too moral for Klaus's business ventures, Ben had been surprisingly good at this. Or maybe he'd just been excited to make the decisions for once. Not that Klaus had minded Ben taking the lead, since things had been sort of a blur after the...anyway, it didn't matter. This was a nice treat, and Klaus thought he'd earned it.

“If I come in, will I see anything I'll wish I could unsee?” asked Ben.

Cooked to perfection. He rested the lighter and the spoon on the rim of the bathtub.

“Nothing you haven't seen before,” said Klaus.

“That really doesn't answer the question,” said Ben, but he walked straight through the bathroom door.

Klaus was staring at the ceramic white tiles on the wall in front of him. His head felt like it was floating above his body. He splashed some water on his face.

“You know, it's okay to not be okay,” said Ben.

Klaus rolled his eyes. “Wow, did it take you all day to come up with that one? And I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine. Just...regrouping. Why would you think I'm not okay?”

Honestly, Ben could have been much more of a dick about the whole situation. Ever since the shooting, Klaus had been dreading the moment Ben would ask how Klaus's V-card was holding up, but not a peep. If anything, Ben was treating him with kid gloves.

Ben gave him a piercing look. “Because you've been in the bath for the past four hours? And because you've been doing your own weight in heroin?”

“That's only because this shit is weak as hell.” Klaus had definitely wound up with a bleach batch and not a fentanyl batch. He barely felt anything, and he must have taken at least...he had no idea how much he had taken, actually. Still, at least Blake's vengeful ghost hadn't made an appearance yet. Klaus had snorted some of Blake's stash at the scene of the crime as a preventative measure until Ben had yelled at him to stop.

“It feels awful, doesn't it?” Ben was speaking in a low voice. He sat on the closed toilet seat, staring at his hands. “Like you're corrupted. Unclean somehow. You wonder if the world would have been better off if you'd never been born.”

“You're being melodramatic,” said Klaus. “Blake was an asshole anyway. Who gives a shit if he's dead? Boohoo, fewer junkies will poison themselves with Javex. On that note—” He stood up and reached for the syringe and belt on top of the toilet lid. Too late, Ben covered his eyes and turned away.

“That doesn't mean it didn't affect you,” said Ben. Then he shuddered. “Also, please _warn_ me next time you do that.”

“Ben, our entire childhood was kill or be killed.” Klaus sank back into the water with a splash. Focusing on preparing the syringe made it easier to avoid eye contact with Ben. “Even if Luther or Diego always struck the finishing blow, it's not really my first rodeo. It's fine. _I'm_ fine. I just—” He exhaled shakily. Setting aside the syringe, he rested his head against his knees. “It's been a stressful couple of weeks. Like, _really_ fucking stressful. Can't I take a spa day in peace?”

Ben looked as though he was building up to something. Finally, he asked, “Have you thought about what I said earlier?”

Klaus was wrapping the belt around his left arm, trying to pull it tighter with his teeth. He spat it out and shook his head. “There's nothing to think about, Ben. Except for how the hell I'm going to shut up Stavros.”

“This is destroying you, Klaus. Physically and mentally. You have to stop.”

“Oh, please spare me the D.A.R.E. ad.” He was squinting, trying to find a good vein. “Yeah, yeah, my liver, my prefrontal cortex, my cardiovascular system. Whatever, bro.”

Ben sighed. “That too, but I was talking more about how you're paying for all of this.”

“Okay, what are you talking about?” Klaus shook his head. “This isn't destroying me at all. Sure, it was rough for a bit, but things are under control again. I've got a good thing going on.” He stuck the needle in, pressed down on the plunger. By now he'd mastered this with his right hand. His eyelids fluttered, and his back arched. “Oh, God. _Yeah_. That's more like it.”

Ben frowned in obvious disapproval and looked away. “On the run for murder isn't what I'd call under control.”

“Stop worrying so much. The cops have no leads. There were no witnesses, and we hid all the evidence. I'm good. Everything's good. _Great_ , actually.” He laughed. “I've got this crime shit nailed.”

“Klaus, you're terrible at being a criminal.”

That shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Couldn't Ben let Klaus have just this one thing he did well? But no, apparently, Klaus was a fuck-up at everything, even at fucking up. Either way, pain was becoming an abstract concept again. Ben's voice was starting to cut in and out like a radio with poor reception.

“—people you could reach out to,” Ben was saying. More static, and then Klaus heard, “...if you gave our brothers and sisters a call?”

He sank deeper in the tub, letting the water creep up to his shoulders. “They hate me, Ben.”

“They would still help you get on your feet again,” said Ben, but Klaus noticed he hadn't denied it. “And I'm...” Ben's voice grew muddled again.

Which brothers and sisters was Ben even talking about? Klaus had spoken to Vanya twice in the years since they'd left the Academy, and both conversations had stayed on the most superficial level—the weather, what they both were up to, jobs Klaus pretended to have, courses Klaus pretended to be thinking of taking. Even if she must have known at a glance that Klaus wasn't clean, she'd seemed eager not to touch the subject with a ten-foot pole, which hadn't been as much of a relief to Klaus as it should have been. Luther had stopped trying to be a big brother to Klaus in their teens. To Luther, everyone in the world was either good or bad, and drug users were squarely in the latter category, particularly drug users who flaked on missions and stole Daddy's knickknacks. He'd been the first to write Klaus off as beyond help.

Allison, on the other hand, had tried to help Klaus...at first. But then Klaus had killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. A few too many desperate pleas for money and phone calls at three AM California time that he couldn't even remember, and the speeches about enabling and life choices had come out. Then one day her number hadn't been in service anymore. Well, screw her—like he cared, anyway.

As for Diego...Klaus flinched. Diego had been pretty clear on what he'd thought of Klaus, the last time they'd seen each other.

No, none of them would lift a finger on Klaus's behalf. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the edge of the tub, feeling the cool porcelain on the back of his neck. It didn't matter now.

Ben was still droning on about something unintelligible. Klaus caught the word sobriety, which made him grateful for the drugs in his system blocking Ben out. “And you don't have to do it alone,” Ben finished.

Klaus sat upward with a jolt in the bath.

“Ben, you're a genius,” he said.

There was a look of dawning horror in Ben's eyes. “Oh, no,” he said. “ _No_.”

***

“What now?” asked Stavros. They were back at the warehouse, Hammer Man and an unknown bodyguard flanking Stavros. Klaus didn't know why Hammer Man always had a rotating cast of partners.

“I have a business proposal for you,” said Klaus. For once, the typical unease he felt at seeing Stavros didn't manifest. Klaus was numb to everything.

“Your week is almost up,” said Stavros. “What creative excuse do you have for me this time?”

“Look,” said Klaus. “What would you say if I told you I knew a way for us to make easy cash together?”

Stavros laughed. “I would say that you were full of shit.”

“It's in your interest,” said Klaus. “You know that alone, I'm a risky bet to pull off any heist. I mean, come on, look at me. What are the odds you see a dime of the protection money? No, I'd get myself arrested or killed first.”

“A very good point,” said Stavros. “But what does this have to do with me?”

“I'm saying that together, we could accomplish miracles!” Klaus waved a hand in the air with a flourish. “I've got an idea for a foolproof job. With my brains and lack of self-preservation instinct and with your network, it should be a cinch.”

Stavros was unimpressed. “Let's leave aside the brains comment for a moment,” he said. “I already have a successful business. Why should I trust whatever harebrained scheme you came up with?”

“Because to plan a crime like this, you need inside information,” said Klaus. “And who would have more of that than _moi_?”

“Klaus,” said Stavros, “based on what I know of you, I don't believe you have inside information on your own asshole.”

“Oh, really? You know who I am. What my childhood was like. Let me tell you, I've been inside some primo robbery targets. Not only do I know what their security is like, but I know how thieves got around it.”

“Frankly, I don't give a shit about your pedigree. Do you really think I'm going to lift a finger to help you pay me the three grand?” Stavros motioned Hammer Man and his partner closer. Hammer Man perked up, like a dog at the sound of a tin of food opening.

“Three grand?” asked Klaus innocently. He batted his eyelashes, milking this for suspense. “That's funny. I didn't say anything about three grand.”

Stavros's face betrayed no obvious emotion, but Klaus could tell from subtle cues and micro-expressions—the way he lifted his chin, the slight pupil dilation—that he was intrigued. “How much are you talking about?”

Klaus grinned wickedly. “I'm talking about fifteen _million_ dollars.”

Even Stavros couldn't hide a flicker of surprise. “You're serious about this?” He fixed Klaus with a penetrating stare, as though seeing him in a new light.

“Absolutely,” said Klaus. “All I ask for is a measly five million for myself, and the rest would be yours. I'd need to borrow some of your resources, of course, but you'd be taking none of the risk yourself.”

For awhile, Stavros stroked his chin, mulling it over.

“Then I would say that it depends on what you have in mind,” he said at last.

Klaus lit up.

Ben might say that this wasn't who Klaus really was, but frankly, Klaus didn't even know who he was meant to be anymore. If there was some version of Klaus out there that was capable of being whole and thriving, then this Klaus couldn't find him. Sometimes his life felt like he'd accidentally boarded the wrong train. On a ride he'd never bought a ticket for, toward a destination he wanted to flee. But he was tired of being at the mercy of the world. Even if that train was going off the rails, for once he wanted to be driving instead of just a passenger.

“First off,” said Klaus, “I'll need accomplices.”

***

Klaus was starting to see what a first-rate criminal organization looked like from the inside.

As children, they hadn't needed to worry about the how and why of crime. All that mattered was being stronger than their opponents. Klaus had picked up some tricks through osmosis, but there was only so much you needed to know about avoiding detection to stop people who had already been detected.

For the first time, Klaus realized he'd had a skewed idea of how criminals operated. His sample size consisted of the ones who'd been caught.

On the other hand, Stavros was a professional. He worked through every detail, leaving nothing to chance. To prepare for the heist, Stavros wanted drones with cameras, spies to track the movements of everyone entering and leaving the building, multiple test runs. Stavros planned for scenarios Klaus had never considered, covering their tracks in dozens of small ways. Stolen cars with fake plates in anonymous storage locations, decoy vehicles to lead the cops off their trail during their getaway, fake construction barriers blocking the road. And of course, the number of co-conspirators kept creeping up. Even if Klaus was feeling less like the brains of this operation with every change to his original plan, it made him proud to be the face of it.

The best part of working with Stavros was the cash advances, though. Only three hundred dollars a week, which lately seemed to be barely enough to maintain Klaus's habit, never mind get him high, but still. Imagine, _getting_ money from Stavros, instead of owing it to him. It was a dream come true. For the first time, Klaus had a steady job, even if he was still sleeping most nights on park benches or doorsteps or in the back of 24-hour coffee shops. And God, did he need the money. The brick of heroin he'd stolen from Blake must have been mostly bleach after all, because somehow it was already gone.

While they drove down the same highway and followed the same truck on its 5 PM route for the umpteenth time, Klaus high as balls in the backseat and pretending to pay attention to where they were going, his mind was wandering.

 _The Blue Bandit_ , he thought. To the point, good alliteration. But it was too simple. He could do better.

 _The Cerulean Spirit._ Nah, anything with a connection to ghosts was risky. Cerulean Stalker, maybe? Cerulean Sorcerer? Ooh, that last one flowed well. Still, cerulean wasn't really him.

 _The Rainbow Renegade._ Pros: striking, had a nice ring to it, anti-establishment sentiment, LGBT representation. Cons: not very intimidating, boiled down his personality to liking dicks. Also, it was the wrong colour scheme. A villain shouldn't look like a box of pastel crayons.

 _The Scarlet Skull._ Not bad. Definitely the most menacing option. Red and black gave him a better palette to work with. A bit cliched, though.

Well, he could workshop it. All of those were better than the Seance.

Maybe Klaus had found himself after all.

***

“Go away,” said Klaus. He was shuffling through clothes on the thrift shop rack, looking for inspiration for his costume.

“Not until you hear me out,” said Ben.

Ever since Klaus's meeting with Stavros three weeks ago, Ben had alternated between nagging and frosty silences. It was tempting to keep tuning him out, but Ben looked especially worried and insistent now. He'd really put Ben through the wringer lately. So help him, Klaus was too soft for his own good sometimes.

“Two minutes,” Klaus whispered out of the corner of his mouth, when he was sure no one was looking.

“I think you should turn yourself in,” said Ben.

“That's a hilarious joke,” said Klaus. “I changed my mind. Your time is up.”

“I'm serious,” said Ben. “Tell the police you were in over your head. The judge might be lenient. After all, you were being threatened by a gang. Show them your injuries and explain that Blake was self-defence. Let them know you have a drug problem. You could get a reduced sentence if you agree to treatment.”

“Jesus, you're such a bootlicker, Ben,” whispered Klaus. “Don't you know that the first rule is never talk to the cops?”

“You could get a lawyer first,” said Ben.

“How am I going to pay for this lawyer?”

Ben's face fell. “Dad?” he said feebly.

Klaus started to laugh, which made the woman down the aisle give him a strange look. “You're full of comedy gold today.”

“You wanted an invisible partner? Well, here you go.” Ben leaned in. “I paid a visit to the police station. They're onto you, Klaus.”

His hand froze on the leotard he was holding. “You're lying,” said Klaus. He felt a wave of nausea.

“I don't know how many felonies you've committed in the past month,” said Ben, “but it must be in the double digits. We missed some of the blood, Klaus. When you were fighting with Blake, yours got on his shirt. I didn't realize. They tested it and caught that the blood belonged to two different people.”

“Nice going, Ben,” whispered Klaus. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“You're missing the point,” said Ben, but Klaus noticed he looked a tad defensive. Maybe someone couldn't handle his own medicine. “The police matched your blood to DNA samples from hair on the sweater you left in the alley after the bank robbery. They've tracked the bullet casings to a murder committed in 2008—”

“I didn't commit a murder in 2008!” shouted Klaus. Everyone in the thrift shop spun in his direction.

“That was oddly specific,” said a man zipping past him on a motorized scooter.

“Gordon must have sold you a dirty gun,” said Ben. “Anyway, that's not even the half of it. Someone at a convenience store noticed the tattoos on your palms. Apparently a man with the same tattoos had just robbed them at gunpoint?” Ben looked dismayed, but clearly not shocked. “And of course, not only were you acting sketchy, but you were on camera and used an ID to buy beer and cigarettes, so nice going, genius. It was a fake ID, but the cops figured that out in about two seconds. I mean, Hugh McSchlong? Really, Klaus?”

So sue him, his fifteen-year-old self's top priority had not been realism.

“And it gets worse. When they cross-referenced the name, they found that a...” (Ben sighed.) “... _Hugh McSchlong_ had also pawned necklaces at multiple locations the same day. The cops requested the security footage for the pawn shops. Not only were you in all of them, surprise surprise. But you were wearing the red shoes you left outside the bank. When they did some digging, they traced the pieces you pawned back to a jewellery store burglary. And in _that_ security footage, the masked culprit was wearing the exact same coat and shoes you had on at the pawn shop, because apparently you spent a total of thirty seconds planning this. Oh, and a liquor store reported you for trying to spend marked bills when you were clearly high out of your mind—also on camera. They called in the employees from the convenience store, your taxi driver, and the guy who caught you changing in the alley. All of them ID'd you. Now you're linked to two murders, two armed robberies, and a burglary. They're going to publish your picture in the news and boost the reward money. I don't think they realize that you're Klaus Hargreeves, the Seance, but it's only a matter of time before—Klaus?”

He felt his knees buckle as he slumped against the rack.

“Hey, are you okay?” asked a stranger with a shopping cart full of kitchen supplies.

“Yeah, sure,” said Klaus. “My blood sugar is just low.”

The room was spinning. His breathing was getting too fast, and he felt like he was under assault in all directions. He had to escape. Leaving his shopping cart behind, he turned around and walked out the door. When he was outside, he half-sat, half-collapsed onto the sidewalk. To stave off a panic attack, he popped one of his benzos. Look at him, using medication as intended for once.

Instantly, Ben materialized beside him. “Klaus?”

“I'm not going to prison,” said Klaus, his voice cracking. “I'm _not_!”

“It's too late to change the past,” said Ben. “Now we have to make the best of a bad situation.”

“They'd charge me for murder, Ben,” Klaus whispered. “That would mean...that would mean...” Somehow, Klaus couldn't bring himself to say the word _life_.

“You should have stopped and faced the music sooner,” said Ben. “Maybe then it would be only six months or two years. Instead you made it worse the more you tried to run away.”

Klaus would have flipped him off if he'd had the energy. Leave it to Ben to see him have a meltdown and turn it into a moral lesson. Three weeks ago, Ben had been eagerly plotting to hide the murder along with Klaus, but now he was rewriting history to cast himself as the speaker of Cassandra truths.

“It might not be so bad,” said Ben. “You'd be safe there. You'd have a roof over your—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” snapped Klaus. He clutched his head. His brain felt starved of oxygen, as if none of his breaths were taking in enough air.

No, prison and Klaus would not mix. For one thing, people who looked and acted like Klaus were targets for getting the shit kicked out of them and worse. But also, prison meant walls and locked doors and no light. No drugs, no escape from the ghosts, no way out. All the freedom and joy gone forever.

Besides, it was the principle of the thing. He couldn't give up and let them win. It would be proving everyone right about him. Every single person who'd ever made Klaus feel trapped and small, who'd ever tried to crush him under their heel.

In his mind a highlight reel of them constantly played. All the guys who'd ever beaten Klaus or stolen from him, be it possessions or a piece of his soul, while he'd been too out of it to fight back. The cops who'd laughed at Klaus the only time he'd reported it, eighteen and still relatively new to the street and seeing the world through the naive eyes of a billionaire's son (later, Ben had come outside the station, fuming with rage, and said the cops had labelled the report as NHI - No Human Involved). That one counselor at the first rehab clinic (the one Allison had paid for) who'd told Klaus maybe he should set his career expectations lower and that there was no shame in working in the fast food industry. That one orderly in her fifties at the second rehab clinic (the one the government had paid for) who'd kept entering Klaus's room while Klaus writhed and screamed through detox, letting him know that she had pills, by the way, in case Klaus was interested—at an extortionate mark-up, of course, but she'd consider other options in lieu of payment, wink-wink nudge-nudge—until Klaus had finally caved. The paramedic who'd told her colleague within earshot of Klaus that if he was going to OD three times in a year, he should finish the job instead of burdening the system. The politicians who'd passed the laws declaring Klaus a criminal before he'd pointed a gun at anyone. And his father. Always his father.

This couldn't be the end. There had to be an opening, just a tiny crack to wriggle through. Just this once, Klaus wanted the story to play out differently.

“Klaus, you look like you're about to faint,” said Ben.

He took a shuddering breath, trying to keep himself together until the pill took effect. _Think, Klaus. Think._ It wasn't over yet.

“If we pull this job off, I'll be a millionaire,” said Klaus, more to himself than to Ben. “It wouldn't matter if I'm a wanted criminal. It would be enough money to start over in another city. Or—or another country.” He smiled, feeling reassured. “Maybe Stavros could get me a fake passport. He has connections.”

“What, you and Stavros are friends now?”

“I think I misjudged the guy,” said Klaus. “Anyway, what if I fled to Mexico? Or the Bahamas? Just imagine, Ben. Living on the beach for the rest of my days. Maybe I'll have my own private island. All the booze and drugs and hot cabana boys I want. Wouldn't that be the life?”

Ben said nothing.

“What, no lecture?” asked Klaus. “No 'waaaaah my moral compass, how can you do such a bad thing, think of the poor billionaire mega-corporations'? Does this mean you've come around?”

“Don't get me wrong,” said Ben. “I still think you're a terrible person. Also, your idea is incredibly stupid. If you really think Stavros will just let you walk away with five million dollars when this is over, then you live on Mars. But at this point, it doesn't matter anymore. Even if you listened to a word I say, it won't make a difference.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Klaus hated the look Ben was giving him. Again like Klaus was a porcelain artifact. “I don't think you'll be doing this much longer,” he said carefully.

“Well, yeah,” said Klaus. “That's the plan. I'll be set for life after.”

“One way or another,” said Ben, in a flat voice.

“You know, you could have a teensy bit of faith in me,” said Klaus. “Believe it or not, I'm not an idiot. I've thought this through.”

“Okay, Klaus,” said Ben, not sounding very confident.

Ben looked as though he was going to say something, then thought better of it. For a blissful three seconds, Klaus was grateful, but then Ben opened his mouth anyway.

“I'm sorry,” said Ben. “But I can't watch this anymore.”

Suddenly, Klaus felt lost and vulnerable. “Ben?”

“It's not like that,” said Ben immediately. “I'm not abandoning you, I promise. I just need to get away for a bit.”

Klaus wasn't assuaged. “How long is a bit?”

“Until this plays out,” said Ben. “I just...don't think I can be here for what happens next. It won't be pretty.”

Now Klaus found himself getting irritated. “You know what? If you're not going to be on my side, then go ahead and leave. I can pull this mission off myself. I don't need you being a downer.”

Ben was staring at the ground. Then he sighed.

“Klaus, I was rooting so hard for you,” said Ben. “But you just keep coming up with new ways to ruin your life, and I'm powerless to stop it. This is like witnessing a slow suicide over years. And the worst part is that you had so, so many chances to turn things around. Now we're getting to the point of no return, and it just—it makes me so angry, okay? Especially when I—”

Ben stopped himself.

“Go on,” said Klaus, his voice icy.

Ben averted his eyes. “It doesn't matter.”

“No, I want to hear this. Especially when what?”

“Fine,” said Ben. “Especially when I would have given anything to have a tenth of the opportunities you threw away. Are you happy now? For making me say it?”

Klaus couldn't even find it in himself to get mad at Ben. “Oh,” he said. Klaus supposed there must have been opportunities once. It was strange. Everyone always told Klaus he'd made bad choices in life. But for some reason, nothing ever felt like a choice to him, any more than it was a choice to continue falling from a cliff.

“Don't hate me, Klaus.”

Klaus forced himself to smile. “Nah, it's fine. I get it. Self-care. You do what you gotta do.” A rare sincerity crept into his voice. “Really, you never should have been dragged into any of the shady shit I get up to. You were too good for all of this. So if you need a break, then sure. I hear you.”

Ben paused for a bit, as though thinking of how to word something. Finally, he said, “Klaus, things...well, they might be rough soon. But I promise I'll come back. When it's over. You won't be alone.”

At that, Klaus was at a loss. He wasn't sure if he should thank Ben or be offended. But all the same, it tugged at what was left of his heart, and he found himself getting emotional. If Klaus could touch Ben right now, he might have given him a shoulder clap.

“Take care, man,” said Klaus. He waved. “See you in Mexico!”

Ben looked like he was about to cry. “Sure, Klaus. I'll see you.”

Then Klaus was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: no big ones, but just to be on the safe side, injections, panic attacks, references to abusive police and authority figures, a line that's ambiguous but could be interpreted as referring to sexual assault. Always feel free to reach out to me if you want any specific content warnings about present or future chapters in public or in private.
> 
> If you skipped the optional scene last chapter, the liquor store event happened there, but it was only hinted at in one sentence. Now you're caught up with everything you need to know.
> 
> The NHI thing is a real police term from Los Angeles in the 80s and 90s for crimes that were "lower priority" because the victims were sex workers, addicts, or gang members (and poor BIPOC victims were often treated like they were implicitly in those categories). It disgusted me enough when I found out that it made its way into the fic.
> 
> For selfish reasons, my personal goal is to aim for posting the last chapter by Friday, or by Saturday/Sunday at the latest. I don't want to wait too long to watch S2, and even seeing promotional material affected some of my motivation by making me second-guess all my characterization (right now, my suspicion is that I somehow didn't make Ben and Klaus dark _enough_ ). But this, uh, may be a stretch, so don't set your hopes too high. It's the kind of ambitious chapter I'd normally want to spend weeks on.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. I have **NOT** watched Season 2 yet, because I didn't want it to influence this chapter. Any similarities to events there are purely coincidental. If anything here is outright contradicted by it, then I would appreciate you hand-waving it as "this fic has an AU tag."
> 
> This wound up close to 8000 words. Please let me know if you catch any glaring plot holes or typos. I normally would have liked to spend more time editing, but the window of time where I can post this is getting narrow.

A famous bank robber was once reported to have answered, when asked why he robbed banks, “Because that's where the money is.”

Klaus knew this quote was inaccurate for two reasons: because the robber had never said it, and because it wasn't true.

The local bank branch down the street might have at most one or two hundred thousand dollars of cash on hand. But the _real_ money was with the armoured truck companies that supplied them.

In 2004, an employee named Gregory Bullock had shown up to his overnight shift as a security guard at the depot for Latch Transport Services with cable wires, duct tape, and a gun. He'd let in three accomplices through a side door. Then they'd gone around slowly picking off his co-workers—holding guns to their temples, ordering them onto the ground and tying them up. They'd used bolt-cutters to tear the metal cages protecting the depot's cash and loaded up a rented U-Haul in the parking lot with millions of dollars. 15.2 million dollars, to be precise.

The money had never left the parking lot. The Umbrella Academy had seen to that.

Now Klaus said a silent prayer of gratitude to Gregory Bullock. He'd crawled so Klaus could fly.

The four of them waited in the white van with fake plates that Stavros had provided. Across the street was a Latch Transport Services armoured truck, parked in front of an ATM. In the backseat, Klaus watched their target from the corner of his eye, keeping his face turned away from the window. He didn't have the luxury of being seen in public anymore.

“I wish they'd hurry up,” said Klaus, his right fingers drumming upon his knee.

“I'm bored,” said Hammer Man, whose name, it turned out, was actually Cornelius. “When can we shoot people?”

Klaus shuddered. “No one needs to get shot,” he said. “Think of your job as more...persuasion.”

In the passenger seat, Cornelius's shoulders slumped. “But they told me I could shoot someone,” he said, crestfallen.

Something ice-cold was slithering in Klaus's chest, wrapping itself around his heart. A familiar need tugged at his mind, and he reached for the Ziploc bag inside the pocket of his trench coat. Only four pills left. Klaus needed to be careful with the dosage today. Enough to take the edge off, but not enough to throw him off his game.

“Don't worry, honey,” said the driver, a bleached blonde with sun-damaged skin. She spoke with a heavy Long Island accent. “I'm sure you'll get to shoot someone soon.”

So Hammer Man had a wife, somehow. Her name was Angela, and she was also working for Stavros. It didn't shock Klaus that she seemed to have a few screws loose as well.

“I hope so,” said Cornelius. He grinned. “Shooting people is fun.”

Angela squealed. “God, I love it when you get all bloodthirsty. It's so freaking hot.”

“Love you, babe,” said Cornelius, puckering his lips at her.

“Oh, is this a double-date?” asked Klaus. With a fake yawn, he casually stretched his right arm and wrapped it around Nick, who was scowling beside him in the backseat.

Nick jerked away. “I can't believe I got drafted into this.”

“Think of it as a road trip,” said Klaus. “A team bonding experience.”

Cornelius chuckled. “This guy is so funny. He talks a lot. And he screams so loudly when you break his fingers.”

“I'm sad I couldn't be there,” said Angela.

“Too bad,” said Klaus acerbically. “It was a real party.”

“It wasn't personal,” said Cornelius. “Just business, you know.” His face broke into a faraway smile. “I did love the screams, though.”

Klaus wondered if the help Stavros had sent was his roundabout form of revenge. His body felt numb, distant. He rolled a pill under his tongue, letting the bitter taste ground him. An armed guard in a bulletproof vest was opening the ATM and taking out the money while the driver waited inside the truck.

“Now?” asked Cornelius.

“That's not the plan,” said Klaus. “Sheesh, have some patience. We're in public.”

He motioned outside to prove his point. A woman was walking her dog nearby, and a blue Chevrolet idled further down the street.

The man loaded the money into the back of the truck. Then he walked up to the passenger's seat. When the truck pulled away, Angela merged into the lane in the opposite direction. She kept an eye on the rear-view mirror, waiting for the truck to turn the corner, then did an abrupt U-turn.

Catching up with the truck again was quick. Every day at five PM, it stopped at that ATM and took the same route to get to the highway. The four of them had practiced so many times that by now Angela seemed to be on autopilot. Stavros had wanted to do even more trial runs, but Klaus had been adamant this couldn't wait.

Right now, he was living on borrowed time.

Page 4 of the City Times, three days ago. A picture of Klaus at one of the pawn shops. Another picture of him at the liquor store, looking disheveled and wild-eyed. He assumed the rest had been omitted to save precious copy space. On the local evening news too, he'd been told. On the walls of post offices. Always the same message.

_This man is wanted for armed robbery, burglary, and murder. A reward of $20,000 is being offered for information leading to his capture._

One way or another, this was the end.

The armoured truck depot was in the middle of nowhere. When they drove outside the city limits, Klaus realized he would probably never come back again. As a wanted criminal, he hadn't even been able to make the most of his last night here. In his head, he said goodbye to the place he'd grown up.

After the robbery, they would head to a safe house an hour's drive away with the money. There Klaus was supposed to lie low for a few days until Stavros made the necessary arrangements to send Klaus to Mexico. Or to a hole six feet underground. But what other choice did Klaus have?

Only the occasional car was visible behind them as they drove down the highway. Klaus was getting antsy.

“This is too quiet,” said Klaus. “Come on, Angela. Play some music or something.”

“I brought some easy listening tapes,” she said. “Anyone like Perry Como?”

“The only easy listening I need is your beautiful voice,” said Cornelius, making her giggle.

“I thought you preferred screaming,” said Klaus, unable to hold back a hint of petulance.

“Oh, believe me,” said Angela, licking her lips. “He gets to hear me scream a lot.”

“That's true,” said Cornelius, as though it had just dawned on him. “I do get to hear her scream. Because when we—”

“I got it,” said Klaus, cringing.

Was this how other people felt when they were around Klaus? He started to feel sorry for...everyone he'd ever met, really.

As the first bars of “And I Love You So” started, Nick kept his arms crossed in protest.

“For the record, I think this is a dumb idea,” said Nick. “If it were up to me, we'd have beaten the shit out of you for cheating us and then let the pigs deal with you. Not taken you on as a business partner.”

“Come on, where's your team spirit?” asked Klaus. “You could have stayed home if you were going to be a Debbie Downer.”

Nick sighed and looked out the window. “In my family, you don't get to say no. If Stavros says jump, you jump. Even if you're jumping off a cliff.”

“And you couldn't have opted out of this shindig altogether?” asked Klaus. “Started a car wash? Become an accountant?”

“Are you kidding?” Nick let out a bitter laugh. “This isn't optional. Your path is set the day you're born.”

A sudden sadness washed over Klaus. “Oh, yeah. I get that.”

“The shadows follow meeeeeeee,” sang Angela with the music.

“I like Stavros,” said Cornelius. “He lets me shoot people. And sometimes I can break their fingers.”

“Of course you do, baby,” said Angela, her right hand massaging Cornelius's thigh as her left stayed on the steering wheel.

Soon the truck turned onto an exit ramp. Klaus felt a chill. It was almost time.

Klaus picked up the two-way radio and pressed the button to speak. “Kappa to Ranger,” said Klaus. “Do you copy? The chicken is heading toward the henhouse. I repeat, the chicken is heading toward the henhouse. Execute Operation Turkey Dinner. Over.”

Static through the receiver. “Shut the fuck up, Klaus,” said a voice.

He felt himself deflate. No one ever wanted to play along with him.

They followed the Latch truck onto the exit ramp. The song changed to “Killing Me Softly with Her Song.” Huh, he'd never known Perry Como had covered this. When they were close to the interception point, five minutes from the depot, they pulled over, letting the truck's lead on them increase. It was important to give their targets the impression they were alone.

Klaus's original idea had been to sneak into the armoured truck facility late at night, through the side door that Gregory Bullock had used. Although most of the building was reinforced concrete, the door had not looked particularly sturdy to Klaus in 2004. He'd thought a blowtorch would be a nifty idea, or maybe a chainsaw. But Stavros had kept asking more questions. “How do employees get in during their shift? Who has the key to the cage with the money? How many guards are there during the day?” Klaus had stayed vague on some of the details, terrified of what would happen if Stavros decided he could pull off the heist without Klaus's help. But he hadn't had the leverage to refuse outright.

Now suddenly, there were many more people involved. And the plan was uglier, more violent. It wasn't Klaus's baby anymore, just a monster that he was chained to. Things had escalated.

Wasn't that the story of everything? Things had escalated. It kept building and building until it wasn't under Klaus's control.

Klaus pulled out a pair of binoculars. An overturned truck on the road was blocking the path. He saw the armoured car slow down, pull to a stop.

The moment of truth. Would anyone get out of the car?

For a long time, the road was still.

Then the right door of the armoured truck swung open. The guard walked out, his hand hovering over the gun in his holster. He was approaching the accident.

At once, assailants in black with masks and M16s came out, circling the man. The guard froze. He took in the situation as though calculating something. Apparently he'd decided the odds weren't in his favour, because he got down on his knees and raised his arms. One of the men in black confiscated his weapon.

(Guards for transport services weren't really civilians, Klaus reminded himself, as he took another pill. Since they often guarded millions of dollars, they were armed and trained to use deadly force in self-defence. There would be no trauma or missed classes or aborted futures. They knew what they'd signed up for. They were soldiers. Like Klaus. Not victims.)

Two of the attackers were trying to get inside the truck, but both doors seemed locked. One of them motioned to the door, then to the gun pointed at the guard's head. The driver must have received the message loud and clear, because the door on her side opened, and she walked out, looking resigned. She got on her knees as well.

“Crap,” said Angela. “A car is coming.”

Klaus felt his heart speed up. “How far away is it?” he asked.

“It just turned onto the ramp,” she said. “We have a couple of minutes on them.” Then she pulled onto the road. “Guess it's time to roll, boys.”

She floored the gas pedal. There was a screech of rubber on asphalt, and Klaus and Nick were flung sideways. Klaus landed face-first into Nick's lap.

“Next time wear a fucking seat belt,” said Nick, shoving Klaus off him.

“Fine, if you're too shy to put out on the first date, we can take it slow,” said Klaus, mostly just to distract himself.

Klaus hurriedly snapped his seat belt on. The binoculars, two-way radio, and assault rifles in the back were all clattering as they bounced around. While they sped down the road, Perry Como was singing something about good times at a languid pace that would have put Klaus to sleep in another situation.

“This is so exciting!” shouted Angela, laughing as the car swerved.

“Kappa to Ranger,” said Klaus, into the two-way radio. “The farmer is...oh, fuck it. A car is coming. Get a move on it.”

Like a well-oiled machine, the attackers in black dashed off to their hiding places alongside the road. The driver and guard were still on their knees.

When they caught up with the truck, Angela slammed on the brakes. The van skidded to a stop, jerking Klaus forward and tugging on his belt.

“This is it,” said Nick. They pulled on their masks—plain black ski masks in everyone's case except for Klaus's.

Nick and Klaus were supposed to take the lead while Angela and Cornelius stayed in the car, following close behind. This was Klaus's time to shine. He put the hat on for the finishing touch.

For his aesthetic, Klaus had dreamt of a high-concept blend between the Masque of the Red Death and David Bowie. Unfortunately, the thrift shop's selection had been lacking, and with his left hand out of commission, he couldn't do much DIY. His face and head were hidden by a cheap Halloween skeleton mask, and the closest thing he'd found to a cape was a red polyester bed sheet that he'd tied around his neck. He'd glued ostentatious feathers onto a broad-brimmed hat, but the rest of his outfit—a grey trench coat over a ruffled white blouse and black leotard, a maroon scarf with gold sparkles, cheap occult-themed necklaces, a belt, combat boots—consisted of whatever eclectic pieces he'd found that fit the theme. On his right hand, he wore a black glove, and on his left he'd wrapped around bandages since a glove wouldn't fit over the splints. (He wouldn't make the mistake of exposing his tattoos again.) At least the leopard-print tights added much needed pop to the ensemble.

His costume hid his identity, but more importantly, it helped Klaus get into character.

“Fear me!” he shouted, leaping out of the car.

The guard blinked, taking in Klaus's getup. “Who the hell are you?”

Klaus decided it was time for a maniacal cackle. “I am the evil that lurks in every man's heart,” he said. “I am the shadow that must exist wherever there is light. I am the fear and doubt that prey upon your souls and feast upon your nightmares. I am death itself. I am...,” he paused for dramatic effect, “...the Crimson Cadaver!”

In the end, the Scarlet Skull had felt too on the nose, but he'd run with that rough idea. Besides, in Klaus's opinion, there was nothing more terrifying than a cadaver.

“Are you a crazy person?” asked the driver, wrinkling her forehead.

Nick gave the most exhausted sigh. “Just ignore him,” he said. “What he means to say is we're taking you with us. And we'll shoot you in the head if you don't play nice.”

Klaus tried not to let his disappointment show. Every so often, the wrong word could send him back to being a child again. Suddenly, he was eight, and his brothers and sisters were complaining when he got too enthusiastic about whatever game of make-believe they played. (“Shut up, Klaus, just _shut up._ ”) He was eleven, and his father was giving him that cold fish-like stare from behind his monocle just as Klaus was really getting into a story he was telling, chilling him to silence. Sometimes Klaus felt like there was a flower inside him just waiting to be allowed to bloom, but whenever the first green shoot peeked out from the soil, someone mowed it down.

“Hurry!” Angela called out. “The car's almost here.”

They urged the guard and driver back into the truck. To an outside observer, nothing would seem out of the ordinary—the driver was on the left side, the guard in the passenger's seat. But Nick and Klaus were crouched down on the floor, the handguns Stavros had provided them with in plain sight. (Gordon's gun was a secret, tucked away inside Klaus's coat. If Stavros double-crossed him, it would be an ace up Klaus's sleeve.)

The armoured truck would have been an impressive heist in itself. There could easily be a few hundred thousand dollars inside. But Stavros wasn't going to all this trouble for a few hundred thousand dollars.

And the truth was, Klaus had nothing left to lose. At this point, he might as well be a dead person walking. He was tired of aiming for lower than the sky.

“Drive us around the truck,” said Nick. “Onto the grass on the side of the road.”

“What are you going to do with us?” asked the driver. Her voice sounded like it was only steady through conscious effort.

“That's not your concern,” said Nick. When talking to hostages, he seemed to fall easily into a menacing authoritativeness that Klaus envied. Klaus wouldn't have realized Nick was playing a part if they hadn't interacted before in other contexts. “Now get a move on it.”

The driver let out a long breath. Then she pressed the acceleration pedal. Klaus saw her hands were shaking on the steering wheel as she made a sharp right. The terrain was bumpy, and the truck's engine whirred in protest. When they completed the detour around the truck, they merged back onto the road. From where he was crouched on the floor, Klaus couldn't see anything, but he knew that Angela and Cornelius were supposed to be following behind them in the van.

Klaus felt a sudden urge to endear himself to their prisoners. “Wow, talk about a bumpy ride,” he said, with a forced laugh. “I bet it's hard to drive a truck like this!”

They both gave him a dirty look.

“What, I'm just making conversation,” said Klaus. “It costs you nothing to be—”

Klaus was jolted into silence by the sound of machine guns firing.

“What was that?” he asked.

Nick gave him a look. “What do you think that was?”

“I thought we weren't killing anyone,” said Klaus. He was starting to feel nauseous. “Why was there shooting?”

Nick shrugged. “Change of plans? Maybe the car behind us saw too much.”

Don't take another pill, Klaus told himself.

“Keep driving to work,” said Nick to the woman on his left. “Act like this is a normal day.”

They were just outside the parking lot of the depot now. There was a card reader at the entrance. “Swipe your badge,” said Nick, pressing his handgun into the driver's rib cage.

Klaus had initially wanted to do most of the talking. He'd even practiced a fake accent for the occasion that he thought sounded pretty villainous. But now that they were going through with this, he found his heart wasn't in it. He was a passenger on a ride he didn't want to take anymore.

The driver lowered her window. Slowly, as if her arm was made of lead, she extended the card. The gates opened. When she retracted her arm, Nick yanked the badge out of her hand, then reached out the window and tossed it far behind them.

She looked miffed. “What did you do that for—”

“No one asked you,” said Nick.

They parked in the lot outside the depot. Klaus crawled past the guard and exited the truck on the right side. He saw the gate was opening, Angela using the driver's badge that they had left on the ground for her. While he waited for the white van to park beside them, he dry-swallowed a pill with an action as automatic as breathing.

Cornelius and Angela stepped outside the van, assault rifles strapped to their backs.

“Oh my gosh, we are _crushing_ this so far,” said Angela, clapping her hands in glee.

“Okay,” said Klaus to the driver. He was doing better now. He had this. “You get to wait in the truck.” Klaus pointed to Cornelius. “My associate here is going to keep you company.”

“Can I shoot her?” asked Cornelius, making the driver tense up.

“Christ on a... _no_ ,” said Klaus. “You can't shoot her. Unless our friend over here tries any funny business.” He turned to the guard. “By friend, I mean you, if it wasn't obvious. We're friends now, aren't we?”

The guard glared at him.

“Fine, be that way,” said Klaus. “No one knows what it's like to be the bad man.” He mock-sniffled. “To be the _sad_ man. Behind...”

“Shut up, Klaus,” said Nick.

“The Crimson Cadaver,” corrected Klaus. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “No ame-nays in front of the ostages-hay.”

“Yeah, I don't give a shit anymore. This job is giving me a migraine.” Nick massaged his temples and turned to the guard. “Just unlock the truck and bring an empty carrier bag. You're going to act like you're here to make a deposit.”

The guard froze near the back of the truck. He glanced at the driver, who was staring into space as though she didn't know if she was dreaming. Cornelius's assault rifle was pointed at her head. The two hostages made eye contact, and the look she gave the guard was apologetic. Then the guard swallowed. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the truck.

When the back of the truck was open and the guard had his carrier bag, Angela started unloading piles of cash and tossing it into their van. There would be more where that came from soon. Klaus and Nick nudged the guard forward, then took their guns. Nick had rope with him as well.

“Good luck, you guys,” said Angela. “We'll keep an eye out for anyone who comes around.”

“And shoot them!” added Cornelius.

“No,” said Klaus. “For the last time, no shooting.”

“But that's not fair,” said Cornelius. “The other team got to shoot.”

Klaus bit the inside of his cheek. Tried to let his mind go completely blank. He turned to Angela. “Can you make sure he doesn't shoot anyone unless it's an emergency?”

“I can distract him,” she said coyly. Then she pinched his butt, making Klaus shudder.

“I wish I could take your mask off,” said Cornelius. “See your lovely face.” He gave her breast a squeeze.

Angela giggled. “Ooh, you're frisky today.” She growled and pawed at him with her hot-pink nails. “Come here, tiger.”

As Klaus and Nick hurried away from them with the guard, Klaus had a funny feeling that the truck wouldn't be unloaded when they returned. For more reasons than one, he felt a pang of sympathy for the Latch truck driver they'd left behind.

To enter the depot, even employees needed to wait for security to buzz them in. A camera outside the door monitored anyone who tried to enter. Klaus and Nick hid around the corner while the guard walked up to the entrance.

“Funny,” said Nick, when the guard was out of earshot, “I didn't expect a murderer to be that squeamish.”

“Excuse me?” whispered Klaus, feeling as though he'd been punched in the stomach.

“Hey, I leave the judging to God. If you did it, that's not my business. I've worked with guys who had much higher body counts. Some I've even had a beer with. But your dirty laundry is all over the news.”

Klaus kept his gaze averted. “Don't believe everything you see on TV.”

When Nick wasn't looking, Klaus popped his last pill. Moderation was overrated. The guard was staring down at his hand as it lingered over the intercom button like he wished he could burn it off.

“Go on,” Klaus called out from around the corner. “Do it for your friend stuck with the psychos over there.”

The guard glanced his way, and in that moment, Klaus got the sense that the guard would love nothing more than to strangle Klaus with his bare hands. But he pressed the button.

A tinny voice came out. “Latch Transport Services. Please state your name and purpose.”

“Arthur Torres,” said the guard, in a dead voice. “Here to make a deposit.”

There was a pause, and then a buzz as the door unlocked.

Arthur opened the door, and then Klaus and Nick ran through behind him.

Behind a pane of bulletproof glass was a receptionist. The moment he saw them brandishing their guns, the colour drained from his face.

Suddenly, Klaus wished he could be anywhere else. To spur on his lagging motivation, he reminded himself of the money, of the thrill he always felt after getting away with a heist. But today he felt nothing except for the urge to get this over with as quickly as possible. All the fun was gone this time, and he didn't know why.

Then it clicked. Of course. None of this was his plan.

Once again, he was just following orders. Right back where he'd started.

“All right, you know the drill,” said Klaus, in a subdued voice. “Hands up, no calling for help, no sudden movements. You—,” he motioned to Arthur, “—on your knees.”

Time seemed to slow down as Nick tied Arthur up with the rope. Klaus was a sleepwalker, a hundred miles away.

When it was done, Klaus turned to the receptionist and said, “Now it's your turn to help us.”

“Why are you dressed like that?” asked the receptionist.

“Because I'm the Crimson Cadaver,” said Klaus patiently, but he didn't feel up to theatrics. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. I want you to page the guy who—uh...”

He lost his train of thought. Okay, maybe that last pill had been a bad idea.

“The guard,” said Nick. “The one who watches the vault.”

“Right,” said Klaus. His head felt like it was full of cotton. “You're going to call in the security guard in charge of the vault. Tell him...he needs to come to the front desk. Chop chop.”

“And why should I do that?” asked the receptionist, his mouth forming a flat line.

Klaus motioned to Arthur on the ground with his handgun. “That's why,” he said.

So much of the plan relied on threatening hostages to force other people to comply. It seemed risky to Klaus when all it took was one guy who hated his coworkers' guts to break the chain of coercion, but it had Stavros's sadistic hands all over it. The next step would be for Klaus to use the same trick on the vault guard, the only person who had the key to the cage with all the cash inside. While Klaus kept watch, the vault guard would retrieve the money a little at a time so as not to call attention, as if he were withdrawing cash for an armoured truck to transport to a bank branch. As insurance, Nick would stay with Arthur and the receptionist to keep the vault guard in line.

Klaus hoped that the vault guard didn't have any bad blood with Arthur. If someone called his bluff, Klaus didn't know what he'd do, and that scared him.

The receptionist looked like he was about to argue, but they were interrupted by the the staccato rhythm of machine guns outside.

“What's going on?” asked Klaus.

“Shit,” said Nick. “Should I check that out?”

There was silence again.

“Maybe Cornelius got bored,” said Klaus.

They waited. When there was no more shooting, Klaus decided to continue. “As I was saying, call over the guard with the—”

Suddenly, more frantic gunfire rang out.

“I think we're fucked,” said Nick, with a bleak expression.

A coil of fear was wriggling inside Klaus's gut, even though he felt a level removed from what was happening. “We can't be,” he said. “The cops had no way of knowing—”

Someone was banging their fists on the door. Then there was more shooting.

“Don't you dare press that buzzer no matter what you do,” said Klaus to the receptionist.

“Open the door!” they heard Angela shriek on the other side.

“Uh, I changed my mind,” said Klaus. “Dare press that buzzer.”

The security buzzed her in, and Angela ran inside, holding an assault rifle. When she looked up at them, Klaus saw that through her ski mask, her eyes were wet and bloodshot.

“It's Cornelius!” she sobbed. “He's—”

But then there was a bang. Something flew out and knocked Angela over. For a moment, Klaus was confused, but then he noticed—the door. It had been blown clean off its hinges. As Angela lay groaning on the floor, Klaus saw a spot of blood on the back of her head.

In the doorway stood a man. A tall, blond man whose fists were red. Still reeling, Angela sat up, screaming, “This is for Cornelius, you sick freak!” as she pointed her assault rifle at him. But before she could fire, he kicked it out from her hands, then reached forward. With a loud crack, he broke her neck as easily as snapping a twig. He watched Angela die with a grim resolution, like someone accustomed to killing for a cause. As he took a step forward, Arthur whispered to the receptionist, “Could it be?” And as it dawned on their captives, their faces lit up. “It is!” they both cried out. “It's him! It's him!” They were grinning, laughing with palpable joy and relief. Their saviour had come.

And Klaus thought, _no no no no NO._

The domino mask was gone. By now, there was no pretense at anonymity. But it was still the same uniform, a larger version of the jumpsuit Klaus must have worn over a hundred times.

“Surrender now if you don't want the same thing to happen to you,” said Luther.

Then Klaus spun around on his feet and _ran._

He made it two steps before Luther grabbed his cape and pulled him down. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nick dash out the door, stepping over Angela's body. _Gee, thanks for the support._

“Go get him, Spaceboy!” Arthur was shouting. “Kill him!”

He squirmed on the floor, rolling onto his back, but Luther placed a foot on his chest.

They'd played out this battle hundreds of times in his youth. On training mats in the gym, while his father gave instructions and Vanya took notes on her clipboard. Klaus swung a punch—Luther let it glance off him and body-slammed Klaus into the ground. Luther won. Or Klaus feinted, then dove for Luther's knee—Luther shook his leg and sent Klaus flying across the room. Luther won. Or Klaus cheated and brought thumbtacks into the training room, threw them at Luther's face (which had earned him another totally non-punitive trip to the mausoleum)—they barely nicked him, Luther restrained his strength less than usual and left Klaus limping for a week. Luther won.

Any fair fight between them had a foregone conclusion.

That meant Klaus wasn't about to play fair.

Quickly, he remembered a handy lesson he'd learned from training. Luther may have had superhuman strength and resilience. But not every part of Luther's body was invulnerable. A kick to the groin worked just as well as it had on Blake. As Luther winced and doubled over, Klaus wriggled out from underneath him and clambered to his feet.

Luther recovered quickly. Before Klaus could escape, Luther swung for Klaus's head. Klaus was just barely dodging punches, not trying to land any of his own. His only advantage over Luther on a good day was speed, but he was too stoned for this, and his reflexes were shot to hell. The hat fell off his head as they fought. As Luther pressed forward and Klaus found himself losing his footing, getting off-balance, only one thought ran through his mind. _Please don't look under the mask_. Anything but that. He would give the world for it. And if Luther did look, please make it so that Klaus was dead first.

Then he had a flash of inspiration.

Silently, Klaus raised his hands. Luther froze, taken aback. With slow, deliberate motions, Klaus took Stavros's handgun from his outer pocket, then stretched his right arm all the way to the side. He let the gun drop to the floor, far from his body. The message was loud and clear. He kept his hands up, backing away slowly until there was a good twenty feet of distance between them.

Luther looked relieved. “Good,” he said. “Just come with me and I promise—”

In a blink of an eye, Klaus's right hand reached inside his coat. He pulled out Gordon's 9mm semiautomatic.

Then he pointed the gun at Luther's chest and pulled the trigger.

Luther fell backward.

“Ouch,” said Luther, brushing himself off and getting to his feet.

Of course it only stunned him. Klaus had known from years of past mission experience that because of Luther's powers, a 9mm projectile at that range wouldn't leave more than a bruise. But he hoped it was a distraction. And if it wasn't, then at least now things would be over quickly. He ran out through the doorway, sprinting across the parking lot.

As he ran, he tore off the cape. It would only slow him down. Both the truck and the van were still in the parking lot. The driver was sitting off by herself, looking dazed. Nearby, Cornelius was sprawled out on the ground in a pool of blood, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. His assault rifle was lying by his side, shell casings strewn across the asphalt. Cornelius must have got his wish, in the end.

So close. The key to the van was still in the ignition. Klaus didn't have a driver's license, but it didn't matter. This was his last shot. Then when he was only a few feet away, he saw it in the backseat—the money.

A manic laugh escaped his lips. This was too good to be true. It wasn't five million dollars, but it was enough to start a new life. Klaus just had to make it to the van, and then he could drive off, he'd be free—

He screamed as his shoulder erupted in pain.

Something was digging deep into his back. He tried to move his right arm. He couldn't, not without his mind turning white from agony even through the haze of painkillers. It must be embedded in his muscle. Beneath him, he saw blood drip onto the ground.

He fell to his knees. He raised his left arm, trying to remove the foreign object. His fingers brushed against a handle.

Behind him, he heard Luther say, “I didn't need your help.”

“Like I would let you take the credit,” said Diego. “I've been following these assholes all day. I'd have beat you here if I didn't have to clean up after some guys with assault rifles down the road first.”

“Had a change of heart?” asked Luther. “Do you want to come crawling back to the Umbrella Academy now?”

Would Klaus really escape because his brothers were having another dick-waving competition? Talk about a miracle. Still on his knees, he grimaced in pain as he tried to open the door with the side of his broken left hand—

Diego kicked him in the shoulder, right where the knife was. Klaus couldn't restrain a yelp. At once, all hope disappeared.

A glimmer of _something_ flickered in Luther's eyes, but faded instantly. Meanwhile, horror seemed to be dawning on Diego.

“Shit,” said Diego. Then out of all possible reactions, his stunned Klaus the most. He started to laugh. “What's with the stupid outfit?”

That was rich coming from someone dressed like a leather daddy, but Klaus kept the thought to himself. He was on all fours, shaking with pain and wishing he'd brought more pills.

“Dad told me to apprehend them alive unless they tried to use lethal force,” said Luther. “And to be extra careful not to hurt the ringleader, since they need him for questioning. You're ruining the plan.”

Diego scoffed. “Some of us make our own decisions, Luther,” he said. “I'm here because I know how to read, not because Daddy said so.”

“Well, clearly you came to the same conclusion as Dad,” said Luther.

Diego shook his head. “I don't care about the money,” he said. “I only came so I could beat the shit out of _him_.”

Then he knelt down beside Klaus. Instantly, Klaus's body tensed as he mentally prepared himself for the blows. It had been a long time coming, this beating. Before all this, after the debacle of their last meeting, Diego had promised Klaus one if he ever saw him again.

Instead Diego said, “Hold still.” With practiced ease, he slid out the knife jutting from Klaus's shoulder. The pain flared out through Klaus's upper-right side, and he bit down on his lip to keep from crying out again. More blood squirted out onto the ground. Klaus was starting to feel faint.

When the knife was out, Klaus sat up, holding onto Diego's arm to support his weight. He didn't trust himself to stand, so he stayed on the ground with his back against the van. There was a wet spot on his trench coat, and he realized the blood from his shoulder had seeped through. At the other end of the parking lot, he saw Nick, lying face-down with a knife in his back. Klaus didn't know if Nick was alive or dead.

“What happened to you?” Diego's voice was a chilling blend of kind and cruel. He cupped Klaus's chin and tilted his head up. “Or was this always you, deep down? Guess that makes me the sucker if so.” Now Diego was leaning in so close that Klaus could feel his breath through the mask. In his ear, he said, “Just look at the mess you made.”

Klaus was dizzy. Hot blood was dripping down his arm. He leaned back against the van, closing his eyes, and—

Diego yanked the mask off his head.

There was no time to react, no time to look away.

No sound but the wind rustling through the parking lot.

Luther's mouth opened in shock. For the first time, doubt was written on his face. _“Klaus?_ ”

Exposed and defenceless, Klaus looked up at both of them. His eyes grew wide, as though he could send a message through them. Some plea to his brothers that he could never put into words.

Diego kicked Klaus in the ribs. Hard.

“You fucking p-p-prick,” he said, his voice breaking.

And Diego spun around, too quickly for Klaus to respond but not quickly enough for Klaus to miss his red eyes, and stormed off. He hopped over the fence surrounding the parking lot. There was a blue Chevrolet parked on the street. Diego unlocked the door, slammed it behind him. The sound of an engine starting, and then Diego drove away, far out of reach.

Only Klaus and Luther remained.

In the distance, sirens were calling. Of course, a detached voice in his head reminded him. Once the Umbrella Academy had neutralized the threat, Dad would give the police department a tip so they could clean up. Dad always seemed to know more than the cops. Klaus had long suspected his father had criminal informants. His intuition was looking more plausible by the minute.

Neither of them was speaking. It was too much to bear.

“Luther,” said Klaus. “I—”

But he couldn't continue. Luther had no business looking so much like a boy again, so unsure and lost. Not after this many years. Throughout his life, Klaus had been on the receiving end of many disapproving glares from Luther. As though whatever latest method Klaus had discovered of fucking up was predictable when nothing good could ever be expected of him. But this was something new—or more aptly, old. He hadn't seen Luther look at him this way since they were teenagers and Luther had first found out that Klaus smoked pot despite all the anti-drug PSAs they'd filmed. That hurt, betrayed look, like finding out that Santa wasn't real because Klaus had personally killed him—a raw, bloody wound that Klaus couldn't avert his gaze from. It was the look of someone who'd still had faith to lose.

Klaus hadn't known, until now. He hadn't realized there had been anything left between them to destroy.

He wished so badly he could be too high to function, or failing that, dead. He never wanted to feel again.

The world was becoming fuzzy. At once, Klaus was very cold. With a lurch, he fell forward. His fingers and toes were numb, and he was shivering.

Then he felt two strong arms around him.

At once, he was in the air, carried like a blushing bride. They were heading away from the van, toward the gate. Instinctively, he found himself resting his head against Luther's chest. The body heat was comforting. Klaus's left arm clutched his torso, his right dangling.

Klaus felt Luther's grip on him relax for a moment. There was a sound of creaking metal, and the gate flew open.

Lights, red and blue, flashing everywhere. They were at the street now. He curled up in his brother's arms, letting himself drift off and closing his eyes—

Without warning, Luther dropped him onto the ground.

Klaus cried out as he fell several feet and landed with a thud. Even through the painkillers smothering it, the pain made itself heard in his shoulder and broken fingers.

From a loudspeaker came an authoritative voice.

“Put your hands up.”

He blinked stupidly. The world around him spun. He raised his left arm.

“This is your last warning. Put your hands up!”

His right arm wouldn't move. “I...I can't,” he said, gasping. He tried lifting it again, and a blinding pain shot through him. It was no use.

“We're counting to three,” said the voice from the loudspeaker.

Fear was a spitting viper in his chest. Maybe it didn't matter either way. Maybe this was as good a time as any for things to end.

Around him in an arc were police cars, blocking off all paths. His mind was sluggish, but even so, he found himself idly assessing the situation. Could he crawl through the gaps between them? Turn around and run back to the depot? Pull out his gun and take them out? He looked around. It was like watching doors slam shut one by one. No openings left.

“One,” said the voice.

“Please, Luther,” said Klaus. He didn't know what he was asking for.

There were bloodstains on Luther's jumpsuit that Klaus had left. Luther's face was transforming before Klaus's eyes. The vulnerability and hurt were being leeched out, leaving behind something impassive. Something righteous. Klaus could see the contradictions resolving themselves, Luther's brain working out which minor corrections would best maintain his worldview. The quiet mental filing away of Klaus into a dark cabinet somewhere in Luther's mind. Adjusting his tally—one fewer brother. Another door was closing, this time for good.

“Two.”

“Please,” said Klaus. And because it wasn't quite what he wanted, but it was all he could put into words, he added, “Don't—don't look.”

Distantly, he saw Luther signal to them. Words he couldn't understand, conversations that didn't penetrate his skull. Everything was blurry, far away. His stomach dropped as he waited for the last number, but it didn't come.

Then at once, the doors to the cars opened. Uniformed police officers swarmed out. Their guns were pointed at him. Huh. This was familiar.

As they came closer, the net circling around him, he thought woozily, he should have known better. All this time, reliving the same old story, as if he could ever rewrite it. Telling himself it was for a hundred different reasons, when really, it was the same battle he'd fought since eleven. As though deep down, he believed that if he weaseled out of enough impossible situations, broke enough rules, spited enough authority figures, then he could change the past. This time the mausoleum door would swing open, and he would escape.

But he should have realized that the house always wins. The gates would always close before he could run through them. The walls had no weak points. In the end, he would stay trapped in the dark.

“Crime doesn't pay,” said Luther, turning his head away.

Cold steel touched his wrists, and as the cuffs clicked shut, Klaus felt himself sink into the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CNs: blood loss, references to past torture, more casual suicidal ideation, whatever the hell Angela's and Cornelius's disturbing relationship is. Any warning that could be a spoiler is similar to content in previous chapters, so ask if you have more questions.
> 
> So that happened. Now that I can be honest, this was actually inspired by writing a chapter for my other fic ( _Mission Logs_ ). When I was researching bank robberies and read that most were drug-related, I had a crackpot idea of adding another bank robbery mission during the period where Luther is alone at the house...only this time, when he pulls off the culprit's mask, it turns out to be Klaus. But I wasn't going to change my plan at the last minute and throw in a scene that outlandish with no set-up whatsoever. Then it occurred to me that the same story told from Klaus's PoV might be interesting. (I threw in Diego as well because I liked their dynamic in the first scene, and because you'd all kill me if I left him out.)
> 
> In addition, I've always been a sucker for tales of sympathetic villains who are in over their head and who desperately try to escape impossible situations. So I wanted to try my hand at writing a story with some of my favourite tropes. All of this is a long way of saying that this fic was incredibly self-indulgent, but I hope you got some enjoyment out of it anyway!
> 
> To those of you who were afraid of an unhappy ending...welp. If it makes you feel better, my personal headcanon for this fic (which you can choose to ignore if you prefer an ending where Klaus suffers the full consequences of his actions) is that Reginald will make damn sure that Klaus gets out of prison in time to fight the Apocalypse in 2019, even if he has to bribe a DA or tamper with evidence to do it. (FTR, Luther having some resistance to guns is another of my personal headcanons, because it drove me crazy how cavalierly they ran in front of bullets in the show.) As some of you suspected, my tagging this as an AU was a bit sneaky. Technically, nothing here is outright _contradicted_ by canon. But I still consider this an AU, because the events in this fic would have serious consequences. Not only would his prison sentence be much longer, but I think Luther or Diego would mention Klaus's short-lived career as a supervillain once or twice at family meetings.
> 
> Lastly, for your own entertainment, here is my shitty MS Paint [concept art](https://imgur.com/GJxHgc0) for Klaus's supervillain costume. Mockery is welcome, because there's a reason I'm not a fanartist. (As you can see, Klaus's secondary superpower is being able to deform his own arms.)
> 
> Time for me to hit Post and then flee from anything UA-related for the next twenty-four hours!


End file.
